Of Monsters and Men
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: Mick suffers terribly after his failure with the Alpha Vampire. Ketch is given his position, and makes life hell for Mick. Enter Sam Winchester, under very unusual circumstances. Suddenly the BMOL have a powerful new hunter, and Mick has a powerful new ally. Warnings: non-con, abuse, violence, sex slavery, all kinds of dark and bad for poor Mick :/
1. Chapter 1

The warehouse that served as the headquarters for the British Men of Letters was quiet and mostly empty, where merely an hour earlier it had been filled with chaotic violence. Sam's muscles ached, his body swiftly crashing in the wake of the adrenaline-fueled rush as it passed.

It had been a hellish nightmare of a night, and Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so exhausted.

Now that the Alpha Vampire was dead, and they were all, for the moment, safe, Sam took a moment to catch his breath in the entranceway to the Brits' temporary headquarters. He watched his mother and brother across the room, trying to pretend that things weren't awkward and strained between them, while not speaking a single word to each other or even looking at each other – and failing miserably, of course.

And that wasn't even _close_ to the most notable failure of this awful, blood-soaked night.

Mick Davies stood beside Sam, silent and outwardly calm – but Sam could see the traces of worry and uncertainty in his expression as he glanced at Sam, trying to gauge his reaction. Sam could tell he had something he wanted to say, but he didn't say it, just stood there, looking troubled and discouraged – and Sam figured if he was in Mick's shoes, he'd feel the same way. If their intention had been to win him over tonight, well – that was about the evening's _second_ most notable failure. Finally Mick ventured to face Sam, turning toward him and waiting until Sam made eye contact to speak.

"Sam… if you hadn't been here tonight…"

"You'd be dead."

Mick blinked, clearly caught off guard by Sam's blunt assessment. Sam held his gaze, eyebrows raised in challenge, utterly unapologetic. Mick drew in a slow breath, visibly measuring his words.

"Look, Sam, I realize this night… hardly inspires confidence in the British Men of Letters, or… or me and my leadership, but… we aren't incompetent. We're just…"

"Unprepared," Sam finished for him – not harsh or accusing, just honest. "Completely."

Mick opened his mouth as if to protest, but he didn't. Sam could see the recognition, the guilt in his eyes, as his shoulders fell and he looked away, swallowing hard. "You're right," he admitted softly, shaking his head. "People died tonight – good people, who trusted me to make sure we were ready for something like this, and – I failed them. And you. I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," Sam said. "Be _better_. Mick… you've got a really good thing going here. Or, you know… _potentially_ , a really good thing. But don't be so confident that you think you're untouchable. The Alpha Vampire is dead, yeah. But… if I hadn't been here… he wouldn't be. And _you would_."

Mick held Sam's gaze, nodding slowly in acceptance. "I know," he quietly conceded. "It appears we need your support far more than you need ours."

"Don't think I'm completely unimpressed," Sam admitted. "You're doing some really incredible work, here."

Sam was trying to temper his severe criticism with encouragement, but it was more than meaningless flattery. Yes, they'd needed his help tonight, badly – but that didn't change the fact that before he'd stepped into the picture, they'd already killed all but eleven of the vampires in an entire region of the country. It made the concept of a world without monsters seem like a very real possibility – even if Mick and his group weren't quite equipped to make it a reality just yet.

Mick looked up at him, a trace of sincere hope in his eyes at Sam's faint praise, and Sam's heart sank – because there _was_ potential here, particularly in Mick. He'd shown intelligence, and the ability to think quickly and adapt to a dangerous situation, falling right into the part he'd needed to play in order to help Sam kill the Alpha. Sam felt a desire to hone that potential, to help Mick, to teach him – but that wasn't what the Brits wanted from him.

"The thing is, Mick… I'm not ready to commit myself to taking your orders, or your superiors' orders, with no evidence whatsoever that any of you have _any idea_ what it's really like in the field. I've been doing this my entire life, and all tonight has taught me is that… I should trust _my_ instincts, not those of someone who's – by your own admission – never killed _anything_ in his entire life. Sorry."

Mick winced, closing his eyes for a moment, and then nodded again. He looked disappointed, but said, "Of course. You _should_ trust your instincts, Sam. And, after tonight, if they're telling you not to trust in _our_ abilities, I… I understand."

"Give me a call, though, if you need help. I mean… I'm not taking orders from you, Mick, but… if you, or… or Mom… need me…"

"I appreciate that." Mick offered a soft, apologetic smile. "It's… more than I could expect from you, given the circumstances."

Sam glanced across the room at Dean and Mary, and figured that if all they were going to do was stand there awkwardly not talking or touching until the end of time, it was about time he rescued them. He shook Mick's hand, then crossed the room to stand with his family near the Impala. After a few carefully chosen words to get them started, Dean and Mary were all right, though, agreeing to respect each other's choices even if they didn't agree with them, and hugging it out.

And Sam tactfully didn't point out what a load of crap that whole "respecting each other's choices" thing was – because he'd never known a single Winchester, natural born or honorary, who'd managed to keep _that_ promise.

Sam hugged his mother and got into the Impala to wait while Dean took his turn to say goodbye, for now. Sam watched them for a moment in the rearview mirror, before glancing uneasily behind them to the place where Mick still stood, watching as well. Sam had to admit to being tempted, at first, by the rather impressive technology and logistics the Brits had put together. If the night had gone just a little bit differently, Sam might have made a very different decision.

But if the night had gone just a little bit differently – Sam's mother might have died.

The idea of her working for these clueless pencil pushers without any reliable back-up was kind of terrifying. But Sam knew that, whether or not he'd be able to stick to it, what Dean had said was true. Mary was a grown woman, and a skilled hunter, and ultimately – it was her decision to make.

He only hoped it wouldn't be the decision that got her killed.

After the Winchester brothers left, Mick spoke with Mary for a few minutes, telling her he'd call once he'd heard from London and knew where their operation would be going from here; then she got into her own car and drove away. He watched until she was gone, then closed the doors and went back into the main building.

It felt emptier than usual, even at this late hour. The rooms were always brightly lit, no easy hiding places for monsters of any kind – but still, he couldn't help thinking about the few vampires that Mary had said escaped into the surrounding woods. The entire facility had been secured, and still Mick felt a taut, uneasy tension itching just under his skin.

It was over, he reminded himself. The vampires were dead, or gone. He was safe.

Of course… he'd believed that _before_ the vampire invasion, too.

He had bigger worries at the moment, however, than a case of post-trauma nerves. It felt like there was a lead weight in his chest as he turned down the hall toward his office, already dreading trying to find words to explain what had gone wrong that night.

A preliminary report via telephone had been given mere minutes after the Alpha had been killed and the rogue hunter secured - but Mick knew better than to think that the elders would be satisfied with so little detail.

He sat down at his desk and logged into the communications device disguised as a simple typewriter, to announce his presence. It was only moments before he was instructed to report. He did his best to explain the situation – how they'd been completely unprepared for a vampire attack on their own headquarters, how they'd tried and failed to secure the building in time to keep the vamps from getting in, and how Sam and Mary Winchester had managed to save his life and kill the Alpha Vampire. He answered every question as honestly as he could, and for the life of him he couldn't think of what he might have done to make things turn out any differently.

 _We were simply unprepared for such an attack._

He looked at the typewritten words, which seemed such weak explanation, such a pitiful attempt to attach some sort of reason to the loss of life that night. A few moments passed, before the response came through, a few brief words at a slow, measured pace.

 _Yes, Michael, you certainly were._

Mick's stomach lurched, and his mouth was suddenly dry. Until that moment, he'd imagined that he was conversing with the generalized council of elders in London, no individual in particular, but his assembled superiors, who would take his report and decide together on a course of action – perhaps consequences, if they deemed it necessary.

But there was only one person who called him Michael.

And Dr. Hess did not look kindly on those who failed her.

He'd offered no excuses, simply accepted her judgment and apologized for his failure – but received no response for a very long time. At last, after what felt like an eternity, a single-line answer had come through, stating that they had his report, and he was dismissed.

Mick left his office and headed for the room where he slept, deeply unsettled, wondering why Dr. Hess had chosen to make her personal involvement in this matter known to him. It couldn't be good. He was – rightly – going to be blamed for this utter debacle, and he could only guess at what his punishment might be.

He'd been in his room for only a few minutes, sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands, trying to quiet his racing thoughts, when the door opened.

Mick stood up, alarmed to see Arthur Ketch leaning in the doorway. The assassin made him uneasy at the best of times, even when in the relative safety of a meeting with other people. But his appearing like this, alone at the door to Mick's bedroom, when Mick had believed himself to be alone in the building, and most especially at this particular moment, in the wake of Mick's undeniable failure… well, in this context Ketch's presence was downright terrifying.

"What do you want?" Mick asked, his voice quiet to mask his rising uneasiness.

Mick was not reassured in the slightest by Ketch's secretive smirk, as he held out his cell phone. "It's for you," he explained, a beat before his smile faded, his expression and tone exaggeratedly ominous as he clarified in a stage whisper, "It's _her_."

Mick's stomach lurched. For a long moment he couldn't bring himself to move, everything in him utterly unwilling to take that phone and hear what Dr. Hess had to say to him.

"Go on, then, take it," Ketch impatiently waved the phone a little in his hand without moving. "I wouldn't keep her waiting."

Those words spurred Mick into action, and he crossed the short distance between them to take the phone and place it to his ear. "Dr. Hess." Mick closed his eyes, wincing at unsteadiness of his own voice. He swallowed slowly, trying to regain some of his composure. "I'm here… what can I do for you, ma'am?"

"You can move out of the way and let someone else better equipped do the job you were sent there to do."

Her voice was cold and clipped with disgust, and Mick felt fear trickling down his spine with her words. He sat down again on the edge of the bed, his head resting in one hand as he struggled to find the words to respond.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am. We – we weren't expecting to be attacked, here. The Alpha Vampire is dead, though, and…"

"And so is your _entire team_ , Michael." Her tone was severe, warning, and he fell silent, immediately regretting his mistake in trying to defend himself. "How are the American hunters supposed to have any interest in joining our cause, when, if I understand correctly, it was only through their assistance that you weren't _all_ slaughtered tonight? Why should they think that they need us for anything, now? You have failed us utterly." She was quiet for a moment before continuing, cold and dismissive. "Perhaps Sam Winchester would have done us all a favour by allowing the beast to drain you."

Mick flinched, stung. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly. "I – won't let you down again, ma'am."

"No," she agreed. "You most certainly won't."

Mick couldn't speak, could barely breathe. His entire fate and future hung on whatever she would say next. In fact, there was a very strong chance that based on her next words, he might not have a future at all. His eyes fell on Ketch, who had moved further into the room and was now standing in front of his dresser, idly tracing his fingers along the edge of it. He inspected his fingertips for nonexistent dust, then curiously opened and closed each drawer for a moment, sighing as he closed the last one, as if just so very _bored_.

Mick felt a sense of indignation at Ketch's utter disregard for his space and privacy, but it was largely muted by his greater concerns. Because while he idly fidgeted with Mick's things with one hand, Ketch's other hand rested just above the weapon still strapped to his side. Mick fought back a sense of impending panic as he wondered if Ketch had already received his own set of orders, and what those orders might be.

"You are relieved of your post, Michael," Dr. Hess continued. "You will continue to serve in our American outpost for the time being, but you have proven yourself unfit to head this project. Mr. Ketch will be taking your position. You are to assist him from this point onward, and he will report back to me on your actions, and whether or not any further consequences are necessary."

Mick stared up in dismay at Ketch, who was now still and studying him from across the room, the trace of a smile on his lips proving Mick's suspicions correct. Ketch already knew exactly what Dr. Hess was telling Mick now.

And the idea of Ketch running this project, dealing with the American hunters, making vital decisions on matters of utmost sensitivity, well – it was upsetting, to say the least. Ketch was a violent, ruthless man, and Mick dreaded to think how the tactics of this mission might change under his command.

"Ma'am…" he began, hushed and cautious. "I… would be remiss in my duty if I did not tell you I have some… concerns about this decision…"

He pointedly did not look at Ketch, did not acknowledge his exaggerated rolling of his eyes or the smug smile on his lips that followed.

"Your 'concerns' are of no concern to _me_ ," Dr. Hess cut him off sharply. "The decision has been made. You are to serve Mr. Ketch in whatever capacity he asks of you, and you are to obey him implicitly, Michael, and I won't hear another word of argument. Do I make myself clear?"

Mick closed his eyes, nodding in defeat, though he knew she couldn't see him. "Yes, ma'am," he conceded, barely over a whisper. Then he cleared his throat, drew in a steadying breath, and repeated again, in a tone he hoped she'd find more acceptable. "Yes, ma'am. I – I understand my orders."

The call disconnected without another word, and Mick stared down at the phone in his hands, still numb and processing the abrupt change in his circumstances. Quiet footsteps crossed the room toward him, but Mick didn't look up until Ketch's shoes came into view, just a few feet in front of him. Ketch was holding out his hand expectantly, and Mick stared at him dumbly for a moment before remembering that he'd taken the call on Ketch's phone. He placed it in Ketch's outstretched hand and looked away, feeling the stinging humiliation of his dismissal warm his face and make his eyes burn.

"Please leave," he requested softly.

Ketch was quiet for a moment, unmoving. Then he replied at last, a trace of amusement in his voice. "No. No, I don't believe I will just yet."

Mick looked up at him sharply, alarmed as Ketch moved in closer, until he was standing directly between Mick's parted legs, so close that Mick was forced to lean back a little to avoid actual physical contact. Ketch's satisfied smirk widened, and he reached out a swift, strong hand to grasp the back of Mick's head, stilling his retreat. Mick instinctively met the gesture by grabbing Ketch's arm, but didn't dare actually try to fight.

Ketch was much larger and stronger, and now on top of all his other advantages, had the official authority to do whatever he wanted to him. And judging by the cruel twist of Ketch's mouth, the way he pressed in even closer, leaning down into Mick's space – he knew it.

"You don't give the orders around here anymore, Mick," Ketch pointed out unnecessarily.

His free hand came to rest on Mick's thigh, and Mick's heart clenched as it slid slowly upward. He reached down to try to stop it, but Ketch just caught his wrist instead and twisted it hard. Mick bit back the cry of pain that rose to his lips, unwilling to give the other man the satisfaction – but Ketch's vindictive little chuckle made it clear that it didn't matter. Ketch was an expert in pain, and knew when someone was trying to hide it.

"This… isn't right," Mick ground out through the pain, raising his eyes to Ketch's face, his heart racing at the cruel pleasure he saw in the other man's eyes. "You're my commanding officer… my superior, and… for you to do this…"

"But… I've always been superior to you, Mick," Ketch pointed out, quietly triumphant. "It's just that the old men know it now. _She_ knows it now." He yanked Mick in closer to him, and Mick winced, resisting the instinct to fight to free himself as Ketch released his aching wrist and instead placed his hand against Mick's hip, low and invasive. "You've finally done it, haven't you?" Ketch spoke into his ear, taunting. "You've managed to cock things up so badly that your utter uselessness has been proven to all. And I'm finally in a position to actually get things _done_ around here, without your pathetic pandering to those stupid American dogs to get in my way. But don't worry…"

He abruptly let go of Mick's hair, only to shove him down onto the bed on his back. All at once, Mick realized what Ketch intended to do, and felt unbelievably stupid for not having realized it sooner. Panic drove him to fight despite the potential consequences for disobedience. But Ketch just laughed, apparently entertained by his struggles. He easily caught Mick's wrists, grinding down into the injured one as he pinned him against the mattress, holding him down with his superior weight and strength. Mick gasped with pain, turning his face away as Ketch leaned in close, breath hot against Mick's ear, words making his heart sink with despair at the realization of just how helpless he really was.

"… I'm sure I can still come up with _lots_ of ways… in which you can be of use to me."


	2. Chapter 2

"This isn't going to work."

Mick stared down at his folded hands in his lap. It took effort to keep himself from fidgeting with them, to maintain some semblance of calm and control – not that much of anything was under his control anymore. The motion of the car carrying him and Ketch closer to the Winchesters' bunker made his stomach lurch, though not so much as the dread of the moment when they would arrive at their destination.

"You'll turn left in just under a mile." Ketch didn't acknowledge Mick's quiet protest, just leaned forward to speak quietly to their driver, before settling back into his seat again. "From there, it's only a few minutes farther."

"It's a mistake," Mick persisted, glancing up at Ketch, trying to gauge his reaction, how much farther he could safely push.

Not that Ketch was particularly easy to read. There were never any guarantees when it came to Ketch's cruelty. He often appeared perfectly calm, right up until the moment when he unleashed his violent rage; and he often _remained_ perfectly calm, even while inflicting the most breathtaking agony. If it had been a simple matter of keeping him happy, and therefore avoiding pain, Mick's life would have been much easier.

Unfortunately, Ketch seemed to take his greatest pleasure from causing pain – and Mick had become his favourite plaything.

Ketch sighed, rolling his eyes in a put-upon manner before looking at Mick with exaggerated patience.

" _What_ is a mistake?"

"This entire trip." Mick forced himself to face Ketch, even if he couldn't manage to pull his gaze any higher than the collar of Ketch's jacket; his best hope was to somehow make Ketch understand how badly this could all turn out. "Making – this kind of an offer, to – to _Sam_. He's not like Morgan. He would never ask for this, and he won't agree to it, and he'll just hate us for even suggesting…"

"Because you know him so well, do you?" Ketch cut him off with a derisive smirk. "From the entire _twice_ you've worked together in the past few months?"

Since the night Mick had lost his position – and with it his office, his room, his safety and security, and every last shred of dignity he'd ever possessed – Sam had worked two cases with them, by his own choice and on his own terms, of course. The combined total of six days involved in those two cases had been the only tolerable ones of Mick's recent existence.

Sam seemed intent on filling in the gaps in Mick's training, helping him navigate the differences between hunting in theory, and hunting in practice – and Sam was a good teacher. He offered encouraging instruction when Mick was unsure, instead of the impatience and derision, or worse, that Ketch showed every time he felt Mick had made a mistake. And if Ketch's opinion were to be believed, Mick was _always_ making mistakes. But Sam told him what he'd done right in the course of each hunt; Sam praised his quick thinking and instinct and reassured him that the rest would come with practice and experience.

Sam treated Mick like a _person_ – and that was something that he was becoming less and less accustomed to, these days.

Unlike Ketch, Sam viewed Mick as more than just an object to be used… which was the fatal flaw in Ketch's plan.

"Tell me," Ketch sneered, "Just what do you _know_ about Sam Winchester?"

"I know that he… has a strong sense of honour, and… and morality. He tries to do the right thing. He's… not the kind of man who'd..." Mick trailed off, suddenly aware of Ketch's very focused attention. He glanced up uneasily, and then away again, his chest tightening when he saw the predatory light in Ketch's eyes.

Ketch slid across the seat, closer to Mick, reaching his right hand across to rest casually on Mick's leg – high, and too familiar, his fingers trailing slowly up along the inside of Mick's thigh. Mick tensed, revulsion rolling through him, but fought the overwhelming impulse to recoil. Even the slightest gesture of defiance was enough to incite Ketch's anger and earn brutal retaliation, he'd learned that early on… along with another important lesson.

Whatever nasty thing Ketch did to him, however much it hurt, however desperate he was for him to stop – it could always, _always_ get worse.

It was for that reason that Mick kept silent, tense but perfectly still, as Ketch slid his left arm around Mick's shoulders and leaned in close. His voice was hushed, as if trying to entice some secret revelation, when he spoke again.

"Not… _what_ kind of man, love?" He pressed a kiss against the side of Mick's neck, and Mick suppressed a shiver. "What _kind of man_ would one have to be in order to be… tempted by the _incredibly generous_ offer I'm about to make to Sam Winchester?"

The question was undeniably a trap – but Mick had laid it for himself with his own foolish words. His heart was racing, his palms damp as he swallowed hard. "I – I didn't mean… I wasn't… trying to say that you're…" He was making it worse. He drew in an unsteady breath, closed his eyes for a moment. "I… wasn't thinking…"

"No, of course you weren't," Ketch laughed softly, an edge of warning to his voice as he raised his hand to play through Mick's hair, deceptively gentle, almost affectionate. "It's not your strong suit, is it? So I'd suggest that you leave the thinking to me… and simply do as you are told."

Mick just nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Ketch finally, mercifully backed off, though he left a hand on Mick's leg, a possessive reminder that lasted until their car pulled up outside the bunker.

"Just keep your mouth shut and follow my lead," Ketch instructed as he came around the car to Mick's side, catching his arm and stopping him as he started toward the bunker door. "I'll handle the negotiations for this deal."

Mick nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn't want to do any talking. He didn't want to see Sam's face when he realized the state to which Mick had fallen. He didn't want to be here at all.

Ketch allowed him to take a couple of steps toward the bunker door, before abruptly jerking him backward, one hand at his throat as he hissed into his ear, voice soft with menace, "And if you fuck up this deal, love…" His fingers tightened on Mick's arm, vicious and biting as his words. "…you won't be able to _move_ by the time I finish with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Mick whispered, keeping his eyes down, his body pliant in Ketch's grasp. "As you say."

Satisfied, Ketch released him and led the way toward the door with a purposeful stride. He knocked, then waited, turning back toward Mick with a smirk. "Though, I suppose if Sam does accept," he said with a note of gleeful satisfaction, as if telling a particularly hilarious joke, "The night will likely end much the same for _you_ either way, won't it?"

Mick didn't answer, looked away. His heart was racing, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach intensifying. Because he _was_ well and truly buggered, either way.

Not that he believed for even a moment that Sam would actually hurt him. Ketch was wrong. Sam was going to be furious. He would probably toss them both out on their heads for even _suggesting_ such a thing. Sam was a good man, a fair man who wouldn't do the kinds of things that the hunter Morgan had done, or that Ketch did.

Or the kinds of things that Ketch was surely _going_ to do to him, just a short time from now, when Sam inevitably said no.

Taking off his overcoat and folding it across the table, Sam settled down into the comfortable chair in the corner of the library, taking a thick volume from the stack of books beside it. As he opened it to the place where he'd left off, he took an appreciative sip of the ridiculously strong, ridiculously over-priced cup of coffee he'd just returned from purchasing.

He sighed as he scanned the page – the first page of a chapter that described the potential powers of a nephilim. It was certainly not a relaxing read, but relaxation wasn't exactly on the menu until they could figure out what they were dealing with, and well – _deal_ with it. At any rate, the triple red-eye Sam was nursing wouldn't be all that conducive to peaceful rest, anyway. And Sam was just fine with that.

The more prepared they could be for what they'd soon be dealing with, the better.

When Cas had shown up earlier that evening, hedging awkwardly and ultimately admitting that he wanted to speak with Dean alone about something, Sam had decided to take advantage of the quiet time and study. And he would do it where he wanted, how he wanted, and while enjoying the beverage of his choice without being teased about it. He'd taken Cas's truck and headed into town to Lebanon's single coffee shop to make his purchase, then returned to the bunker and settled comfortably into his favorite chair in the library.

The knock at the door half an hour later caught him by surprise, enough that he actually jumped.

 _Fucking triple red-eye…_

Sam shook his head, laughing a little at his own reaction. Then he frowned, reaching for the gun they kept under the table and tucking it into his waistband as he rose from his seat. There weren't that many people who knew of the bunker's location – none that he fully trusted, besides Dean and Cas, neither of whom would have knocked.

He opened the door, one hand resting on the gun, but then relaxed a little when he saw Ketch and Mick standing outside. He didn't exactly trust Ketch, but he was beginning to trust Mick, and even enjoy the limited time they'd spent hunting together. If they were here, it probably meant that they wanted his help with another case.

"Hello, Sam." Ketch nodded as Sam stepped back to allow them entrance. He was halfway down the stairs already by the time he asked, "How are you?"

"What do you want?" Sam replied, well aware that Ketch didn't care about the answer to his own question.

He looked toward Mick, who met his eyes for just a moment before looking away quickly, an anxious frown creasing his brow.

"Just to speak with you," Ketch replied, sounding vaguely offended. "That's all."

Sam crossed the room to the seat he'd just vacated, claiming it again, pointedly closing his book with a weary sigh. "Okay, what's wrong?" he asked, glancing between the two of them, expectant.

"Wrong? Nothing's _wrong_ , Sam," Ketch insisted, giving Mick a severe look that indicated he blamed Sam's question entirely on him, before turning a bright, utterly insincere smile in Sam's direction. "We've come to discuss your recent work with us, and I believe that's been going remarkably well, hasn't it?"

"Yes?" Sam's reply was slow, cautious. "We got the job done, each time. But I've told you guys, that's how it has to be. I have no problem working with you from time to time, but that's _with_ you. Not for you."

"Yes, but the last time our people approached you about working… _with_ us… in a more official capacity, our organisation was under different management," Ketch pointed out, shooting a derisive sideways look in Mick's direction. He considered for a moment, giving Sam a little shrug as he continued with false modesty, "I'd _like_ to think I've proven myself to be someone whose judgment you can trust."

Sam gave him an appraising look, trying to figure out what his angle was. Yeah, Ketch was tactically far more skilled than Mick had been. When it came to working cases, fighting monsters, he was much better equipped. But his judgment when it came to staying alive in the field was about the _only_ thing about Ketch that Sam felt he could trust.

"Kinda busy, guys," Sam pointed out, holding up the book in his hand as evidence. "Got enough on my plate at the moment, so… if there's a _point_ …"

"I'd like to make you an offer, Sam." Ketch was matter-of-fact, and Sam appreciated that at least he wasn't wasting any more time on false pleasantries. "A better one, now that we've had a chance to prove ourselves to each other. All I ask is that you hear me out, consider what I have to say."

Sam sighed, glancing past Ketch at Mick, who was standing off to the side, quiet and unobtrusive, watching and listening as Ketch spoke. His expression was grim, almost resentful, as if he strongly disapproved of what was happening, but he didn't say anything. And that was somewhat unusual for Mick, from what little Sam had observed.

In fact, Sam was struck by how very unlike him in general Mick's behavior seemed. He had always come across as cool and confident while he was in charge of the Brits' US operations, but it made sense that being replaced by Ketch might have shaken his confidence.

And… given what had happened, Sam had to admit that a bit of a kick to the confidence might not have been such a bad thing for Mick.

But even after Ketch had taken over his position, every time Sam had interacted with him, Mick was always helpful, communicative, eager to learn and to prove himself. This… this was different. _Mick_ was different, somehow, though Sam supposed he simply didn't know him well enough to put his finger on exactly how.

He stood quiet and subdued, merely watching the conversation as opposed to interacting within it. As he waited in silence, Mick held his left wrist loosely in his right hand, and Sam frowned when he noticed the bandage that still wrapped it. Mick's wrist had been injured the first time they'd hunted together, and hadn't recovered by the second time – but it certainly should have been well by this point.

Sam tried to make eye contact with Mick while Ketch was speaking, and Mick did glance over at him for just a fraction of a second. Sam was troubled by the spark of something dark and desperate he saw in that instant – but then Mick looked away, swallowing, and Sam was left uneasy and wondering.

"All right," Sam replied at last with a heavy sigh, giving up for the moment on making any kind of connection with Mick, and resigning himself to the fact that the quickest way of getting Ketch to leave was to simply let him say what he'd come to say. "I'm listening. Talk."

"The British Men of Letters do things a little differently to how you do them here, I understand that," Ketch acknowledged. "We're… a bit old-fashioned, I'll admit. But I've seen what you're capable of. I'm aware that you know what you're doing in the field, and as head of our American outpost, I'm willing to allow you a much freer rein with the cases you take for us than we'll allow any other hunter. To… trust you, if you'll trust us."

"So you'd find cases and assign them, but as long as I get the job done… you'd leave the details to me?" Sam was skeptical. "You have that kind of authority? I thought your leadership was all about keeping us American hunters in line."

"As long as they get results, the old men will leave me be. And I will leave you be." Ketch shrugged. "As I said… I'll have to trust you."

Sam nodded slowly. "All right. That doesn't sound too bad. But… it would still mean going against my brother's wishes. Lying to him. I'm not sure I'm willing to do that, when I can find cases just as easily on my own. Until Dean feels comfortable with us working together, I think I'd just as soon he and I keep doing our own thing, and you all keep doing yours."

Ketch sighed. "Understandable." He caught Sam's eyes, a slow, almost predatory smile spreading across his face. "I realise it'd take quite the incentive to convince you to keep something so important from your brother. So, then, allow me to sweeten the pot a bit."

Sam waited, not sure what else Ketch could offer him besides the closest thing to autonomy that it seemed the Brits would allow, while still having access to their technology and resources and underlying support system. It would have to be something pretty significant, to convince him to go against Dean on this one.

"I can see you've taken a bit of a shine to our boy Mick here, haven't you, Sam?" Ketch pointed out, a trace of amusement in his voice, and Sam realized that he'd been staring past Ketch at Mick without realizing it. "Even now I'm competing for your attention."

"What?" Sam cleared his throat, feeling oddly self-conscious as Mick looked up at him uncertainly. "No, I – I mean, yeah, we – we get along."

"You enjoy hunting with Mick," Ketch stated. "He makes a decent partner, I'll agree. If you'll join up with us, I can assure you that you'll get to hunt with Mick anytime you like."

Sam frowned. "Don't I… already do that?" he pointed out. "Every case I've worked with you so far, I've worked with Mick. I mean, he's great, but – I don't really see how that's an incentive."

"Oh, excuse me, I seem to have misspoken," Ketch waved a hand, shaking his head dismissively as if he'd simply made a silly error. "I said 'hunt with'." He paused a beat, holding Sam's gaze as he corrected, "I meant to say, _'fuck'_."

Sam thought he'd heard wrong. He _must_ have. Ketch couldn't be actually offering him – what it sounded like he was offering. He looked past Ketch to Mick, who seemed to be trying to disappear into the wall behind him – and Sam immediately felt sick. So… yeah. Ketch had said, and meant, what it'd sounded like. Everything about Mick's behavior made so much more sense now – but nothing else did.

"You're… actually serious." Sam looked between them, finally settling his gaze on Ketch, who was watching his reaction with obvious amusement. "This… can't be a Men of Letters condoned recruitment method."

"As I said," Ketch reminded him. "The old men give me a free rein as long as I get results."

Sam considered the situation for a moment, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Ketch was watching him too closely, and Sam needed to buy a little time to think, to figure out what to do. All too aware of Ketch's focused gaze, Sam turned his own toward Mick, eyes narrowed speculatively. He let out a slow breath, running one hand down over his mouth, thoughtful. Finally he spoke, keeping his tone flat, skeptical.

"And… you're cool with this."

There was silence for a moment, before Mick looked up at Sam, a little startled, as if only just realizing that Sam was speaking to _him_ – as if he hadn't expected to have any voice in what was happening here. And perhaps he didn't – because he immediately glanced toward Ketch, silently questioning. The glare that Ketch sent back in his direction sent a chill down Sam's spine – and all at once, he settled on a course of action.

Sam allowed a cruel smile to spread across his face as he sat back. "You're not," he concluded, letting the smile color his genuine surprise with pleasure. He gave Mick's body a long, slow perusal, ignoring the stricken way Mick was staring at him, the dawning horror in his eyes, and instead turning back toward Ketch.

"Okay." Sam nodded slowly. "Okay, _now_ you've got my attention."

Ketch smiled, glancing toward Mick with smug satisfaction. Mick looked back at him for a moment before abruptly looking away, a slow swallow visible in his throat. He remained carefully still and quiet, but Sam could see the shock in his wide eyes, saw the way his breath quickened with alarm as he anxiously picked at the bandage wrapped around his wrist.

"As I said, Sam… if you join us now, there are some definite… _perks_ … to be had for doing so."

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding as he stood up, his gaze focused on Mick. "I can see that." He slowly moved closer to Mick, feeling a twist of guilt when Mick visibly tensed at his approach. He kept it out of his tone as he clarified, looking over at Ketch again a little dubiously, as if it was a bit too good to be believed. " _Anytime_ I want."

"Anytime," Ketch agreed.

Sam closed the remaining distance between himself and Mick, looking him over for a long moment. Still smiling, he shifted in a little closer, pressing one hand against the wall next to Mick's head, hemming him in. Mick swallowed hard, his eyes carefully downcast. Sam could see the difficulty with which he kept control, struggling not to let his fear show – but Sam could see the fear, too. He didn't allow it to move him, or alter his skeptical tone.

"You're asking for a lot from me," he pointed out. "How do I know he's worth it?"

Mick flinched a little; Sam ignored the pang he felt.

"He is," Ketch insisted. "Sam, I assure you…"

"I don't need assurances," Sam cut him off. "I need proof. I need…"

He allowed his words to trail off, his eyes raking over Mick's body again as he reached out a hand to slide under the edge of Mick's jacket, fingers slowly trailing inward. Mick drew in a sharp, shaky little breath, his right hand releasing its hold on his damaged wrist and clenching into a fist that twitched a little at his side, but didn't move to strike.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam was aware as Ketch noticed the subtle movement, and straightened slightly, his attention becoming more focused on Mick – so Sam reached down and caught Mick's wrist, pulling it up and into his line of sight, and Ketch stopped where he was, waiting to see what Sam would do next.

Mick closed his eyes, turning his head away and wincing a little, as if bracing himself for punishment – but there was a stubborn set to his jaw, a trace of defiance behind the dread – and Sam laughed a little, low in his throat.

"Looks like he's got a little fight left in him after all, huh? Which is just… _so_ perfect." Sam's voice was low and hungry. He leaned in close to speak words that were hushed just enough that Ketch could still make them out. "I think I'm going to _love_ just… _taking you apart_ …"

Mick shuddered, but didn't try to pull away, didn't dare move at all. Still holding Mick's fist up within Ketch's sight, Sam pressed his thumb firmly into it until Mick's hand fell open, shaking, raised in front of him in a clear gesture of submission.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Sam said, teasingly soft, meeting Ketch's eyes in cruel amusement, grinning at the delight he saw on the other man's face. "We both know you weren't going to _use_ it."

Sam released Mick's wrist and straightened up again, his hand slipping back under Mick's jacket to rest possessively at his waist. "Yeah," he said with a single, decisive nod. "You've definitely got my interest." He paused a moment before looking at Ketch, matter-of-fact. "Of course I'm going to need a sample."

Ketch frowned. "A sample?"

Sam nodded. "Don't get me wrong, it's tempting. But I'd still like to… try him out, first. Make sure I know what I'm getting before I agree. One night. Then I'll let you know my decision."

Ketch scoffed. "Well, that hardly works out well for me, does it? You get exactly what you want, and then inform me in the morning that he wasn't any good. You get your unbelievably attractive sign-on bonus… without actually signing on. And I get nothing."

"Not nothing." Sam shook his head. "You're offering me a long-term commitment, and asking for one in return. I'm saying – how about a trial run? I get one night – and you get one case." He paused, turning back to look with open desire at Mick, smiling a little at the faint tremor of his body under his hand. "If tonight… meets my expectations, then… yeah. I'll do it. I'll sign up."

Ketch was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he took a few slow, measured steps until he was leaning against the wall next to Mick, on the side Sam wasn't blocking. Mick glanced up at Ketch as he closed in, then immediately looked down again, sucking in a shaky breath. Sam felt a rush of sympathy as Mick shut his eyes, visibly struggling to maintain some semblance of calm as the trap closed around him. Ketch simply watched with a cool, amused smile, visibly enjoying Mick's terror.

"That seems fair," he conceded with a slow nod. "I believe we have a deal, Mr. Winchester."

He held out his hand toward Sam, who glanced at it dismissively, his attention almost completely focused on Mick. But after a moment, he held out his own hand without looking and accepted the offered handshake. As soon as his hand was free again, Sam put it gently to Mick's chin, tilting his head up. Mick moved with the gesture, pliant and submissive – but his jaw clenched at the touch, and he kept his eyes closed. Sam studied him for a moment, his smile slipping away into a calm, appraising look, before speaking in a voice of soft command.

"Look at me."

Mick immediately obeyed, his soft eyes bright with barely veiled panic.

"See, how obedient?" Ketch remarked, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Sweet little slave, isn't he? He'll do anything you tell him, let _you_ do anything… and offer just enough resistance to make it _really_ delicious when you…"

"Ketch?" Sam cut him off softly, still maintaining eye contact with Mick.

"Yes."

"Are you… waiting, for something?"

Ketch blinked, startled – but then laughed. "Right, then," he nodded. "Tomorrow it is, Sam. I'll expect you to return him with… only _minor_ damage." He leaned in to add a conspiratorial stage whisper, glancing toward Mick as he clarified, "Don't cut anything off."

Mick flinched. Sam maintained a bored, unimpressed affect, still not taking his eyes off Mick.

" _Leave_."

And finally, Ketch did… leaving Sam alone with his prize.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Mick encountered Morgan, he was seated across from him in a dingy diner, trying to recruit him. He'd met with several other hunters by this point, without much success. And as Mick drank bad American tea and went through his well-rehearsed speech about the benefits of working with the British Men of Letters, it became apparent that he wasn't going to find success here, either.

Morgan wasn't interested in the British Men of Letters. He _was_ , however, interested in Mick.

In fact, he'd been so pushy and suggestive and just generally made Mick so uncomfortable, that he'd cut the encounter short and cut his losses, heading on to the next American hunter on his list. Then, three weeks after Ketch took his position, he asked Mick why Morgan hadn't signed on when they'd met. Mick let it slip that the only thing Morgan seemed interested in was a random shag with _him_.

It was a slip that would cost him dearly.

Ketch said he was going to make his own attempt to recruit Morgan, and he would require Mick's assistance during the meeting – which these days meant copying handouts and serving coffee, menial tasks designed to reinforce to Mick the drastic shift in their roles. Mick was okay with that, as long as it meant that Morgan would be paying attention to Ketch and not him.

But from the moment Morgan showed up, his focus was not on Ketch or his admittedly smooth sales pitch, but on Mick. The more Ketch was ignored, Mick grew increasingly anxious, excruciatingly aware of how frustrating and infuriating it must be to Ketch. He was certain that when the moment of explosion occurred, it would not be Morgan who paid for the insult to Ketch's pride.

"Coffee?" Mick offered, his smile bright and welcoming, though really he just wanted the excuse to get away from Morgan's skin-crawling scrutiny.

Morgan met his eyes with a slow smile, and nodded. "Black."

Ketch caught Mick's eye and nodded toward the counter where the fresh coffee was ready. Mick obediently rose to get it, uncomfortably aware of Morgan's appreciative gaze as he crossed the room. Ketch gave no indication of noticing, as he continued detailing the accomplishments of the British Men of Letters in England, and in America. But Morgan's eyes trailed Mick's every move, setting Mick's nerves on edge, a cold knot tightening in the pit of his stomach.

When Mick returned to the table and set down the coffee, Morgan suppressed a grin, giving a falsely apologetic little shrug. "Sorry… guess I'd like a little sugar after all."

Mick glanced at Ketch uneasily, wishing that at the very least Morgan would be a bit less blatant with his insinuations. To Mick's surprise, Ketch had a thoughtful half-smile on his lips, studying Morgan's face as Morgan watched Mick go back for the sugar. Mick brought the cream from the refrigerator too, just in case; he had no intention of being sent back again just so Morgan could continue to ogle his ass. The slight look of disappointment on Morgan's face as Mick set cream and sugar down in front of him was immensely satisfying to Mick. He turned toward his own seat, and froze.

Ketch had moved Mick's seat much closer to his own, his arm slung across the back of it. Mick swiftly recovered and sat back down, suppressing a shiver when Ketch slid his arm forward to drape possessively around Mick's shoulders.

Morgan glanced between the two of them, taking it in, and his face fell a little. After taking a sip of his coffee – still black – he asked, "So… are you two… together, then?"

Ketch feigned surprise. "A couple? God, no," he replied at last, with a short laugh. "That would imply that he's good for something beyond a half-decent fuck."

Mick reeled a bit at the shockingly harsh words, glancing up at Ketch for a moment. Morgan laughed, and suddenly Mick couldn't bring himself to look either man in the face, his gaze focused down on the table instead as Morgan drew his conclusions from Ketch's words.

"Perks of being the boss, huh?"

Mick kept still and quiet as Ketch idly touched his hair, blatantly possessive, cool amusement in his voice as he replied, "You could say that."

"Too bad," Morgan sighed. "Forget all the high-tech toys, all the hunts that I could just as easily find on my own anyway." He nodded toward Mick. "For _those_ kinds of benefits, I'd sign on yesterday."

Ketch was quiet for a long moment. Mick's only warning was his arm wrapping tight around his shoulder, a silent warning to cooperation, a moment before Ketch offered a simple reply.

"All right."

Mick's head jerked up and he stared in disbelief at Ketch, who was smiling across the table at Morgan, an expectant expression on his face as he waited for the hunter's response. Morgan's eyes were wide with surprise, and a slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

"Really?"

"Why not?" Ketch shrugged a little.

" _No_!" Mick ducked out from under Ketch's arm, standing up from his chair abruptly. His voice was trembling with outrage as he backed away from the two men, who were regarding him with varying levels of amusement and annoyance. "You can't possibly think that I'd – _no_!"

Ketch turned a warning look on Mick, but Mick ignored it. This was a step too far, it didn't matter what Ketch did to him, there was no way he'd agree to this. Ketch held his gaze for a long moment before looking back at Morgan.

"Excuse me," he sighed, his tone indicating that he was dealing with nothing more than a minor annoyance as he rose from his seat, crossing the distance between himself and Mick in two strides and seizing Mick's arm in a viselike grip. Before Mick could protest, Ketch had hauled him out of the room and down the hall past several doors to the room that had once been Mick's, but had now been claimed by Ketch.

The room where Mick's nightmare had started.

Ketch wasted no time as soon as the door was closed behind them. He grabbed Mick's arms and shoved him against the wall, hard enough to drive the breath from his body. Then without leaving him time to recover, Ketch backhanded Mick with his fist, splitting his lip and knocking his head back into the wall.

"You stupid, selfish little bitch!" Ketch snarled at him, before raising his hand and striking again. Mick flinched as Ketch abruptly moved in close, seizing his hair and leaning into his face, voice lowered with menace. "What? You're too high and mighty to make a sacrifice for the good of the Men of Letters, is that it? You've too much pride to debase yourself, even if it means a win for the entire cause?"

"No," Mick objected, breathless and a little dizzy from the blows he'd taken. He struggled to focus his thoughts, to formulate a response beyond the _no, no, no_ screaming in his brain. "It's not – not that. This… isn't the way they do things, they'd never require this of me. It's too far." He glared up at the larger man, defiant despite the sting of his bruised face, and the panicked racing of his heart. "They'll have your head when they hear of this."

Ketch's eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into a cruel, vindictive sneer, just before he lashed out again, hitting Mick in the face and then once again in the ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. Mick collapsed, and Ketch went down with him, one hand wrapping around his throat and holding him against the wall as he crouched beside him.

"They'd have to believe you first," he pointed out, his voice very soft, utterly in control. "It's my word against yours… and I'm the agent in charge of this mission, while you – you're a _bloody disgrace_." Ketch smiled. " _Of course_ you'd want to spread lies and undermine my authority here – you're just so sick with your own seething resentment of the fact that you've been replaced."

Ketch let go of Mick's throat, instead placing an incongruously gentle hand against his cheek. Mick flinched, expecting worse, and allowed Ketch to turn his head until their eyes met.

"I'll tell them you're lying," Ketch explained with a patient, almost sympathetic smile. "And they'll believe me, and by the time they've punished you, you'll be lucky to be alive." Ketch placed a tender kiss against Mick's jawline, and he tried to pull away, but Ketch's hand against his cheek clamped down tight, holding him helpless. "And then… _I'll_ punish you," Ketch concluded in a whisper. "And you'll wish you weren't."

Mick believed him. That first night, when Ketch had held him down and raped him on his own bed, had been only the beginning of several weeks of suffering like Mick had never imagined. He knew what Ketch was capable of, knew that he was right – the council would never believe him over Ketch. And Ketch would certainly keep his promise of unspeakable pain. Still, that didn't mean that Mick was entirely out of options. His jaw was set with determination, and he fought against the fear, grinding out his response in as firm a tone as he could muster.

"Fine," he conceded. "I won't tell the council. But – neither will you. Not this." Mick was certain – almost certain – that he was right. The council of elders might not believe him if he told them what Ketch was doing – but they certainly wouldn't force him to go along with it, either. "They won't make me do this – and neither can you. So – we're at an impasse, aren't we?"

Ketch studied him for a long moment, appraising, thoughtful. Then his hand shot out to lock around Mick's wrist – the same one he'd injured that first night, a vulnerability he'd found too conveniently useful to ever allow it to properly heal.

Mick braced himself, anticipating agony, as Ketch simply tightened his grip just a little, a warning twinge, a reminder that it could be _so much worse_.

"No," he replied, holding Mick's gaze with a nasty smile. "We're really not."

He let go of Mick, only to slam his fist hard into his damaged wrist, crushing it against the wall. Mick let out a silent cry, his breath stolen by the streaks of fire shooting from his wrist all through his body, and he collapsed, struggling to draw air into lungs that seemed frozen from sheer agony – but Ketch didn't let him go down. He pressed in close, one hand at Mick's side, holding him up, the other circling his wrist again and holding it tight against the wall.

He wasn't even close to finished.

"Here's the situation in which you've found yourself, love," Ketch explained, softly, patiently, as if to a particularly stupid child. "At the moment, you do have a – very, _very_ small – bit of leverage here. Because I still want you in a condition where you're capable of pleasing our great, grubby friend out there. But once I walk out that door to tell him you've refused… once he leaves this place tonight… that bit of leverage you've got, well – it'll go with him. And when it does…"

Ketch squeezed Mick's wrist hard, and Mick thought he was going to vomit. The pain was excruciating, breathtaking agony that made him break out in a cold sweat, his vision fading out around the edges as he gasped for breath that wouldn't come.

Ketch shifted in closer, his body hot and close against Mick's, the only thing that was keeping him on his feet. "When it does," he continued, quiet and intent, raising his left hand to run his fingers through Mick's damp hair, while increasing the pressure on Mick's wrist with his right. "I'll come back into this room. And you'll please _me_ instead, love. And I believe you know which of those two options ends worse for you – don't you?"

Mick could barely focus on what Ketch was saying, his heart racing, his entire body shaking with pain. He was fighting to keep from passing out, but he made himself try to concentrate, because he knew by now that failure to respond when he was spoken to would bring its own consequences – and when he did process Ketch's words… his heart sank.

He did know.

Morgan was big and rough and lecherous, but he was also more or less an ordinary man, a man of simple desires. Morgan would have been equally content to seduce Mick into willingly sleeping with him. Ketch, on the other hand, was a violent sadist who took his pleasure in pain and power, and Mick had already been educated, with agonizing detail, on just how creative Ketch could be in satisfying his desires.

And if Morgan left without signing on the dotted line… Ketch would have every reason to _want_ to make Mick suffer.

His shoulders falling with defeat, Mick surrendered with a nod, and Ketch released his grip, allowing Mick to snatch his damaged wrist away. He clutched it against his chest, his entire body shaking with the fiery pain – sharper now for the lack of pressure, as the blood rushed back in and set every nerve ending aflame.

Ketch stayed too close, watching Mick with a twisted sort of affection as he tried to recover, resting his head against the wall behind him and drawing in deep, sobbing breaths. Mick flinched when Ketch's hand came to rest at his side, an intimacy in the gesture that he did not want – but he didn't dare pull away. Ketch studied his face closely, watching for his reaction as he traced a fingertip slowly up Mick's arm, teasingly near to his abused wrist without actually touching it again.

Mick shook his head a little, a soundless plea on his lips, " _No, no, no_ …"

Ketch's finger stilled, his smile fading a little, his voice dangerously soft. "You don't tell me no."

"I'm sorry," Mick gasped out. "Please, I'm sorry…"

Ketch's hand left Mick's arm and moved to his face, and Mick bit back the choked little sound that rose to his lips, making himself stay still and obedient as Ketch tilted his head up to meet his eyes.

"You belong to me," Ketch stated softly. The look in his eyes was leading, warning, and Mick nodded quickly, his breath catching in his throat as he struggled to regain his composure. "I'll do as I want with you… and you'll do as you're told. Yes? What you _want_ … is meaningless."

Mick swallowed hard, closing his eyes and nodding again. When Ketch leaned in to kiss his mouth, Mick submitted to the gentle intrusion, fighting the instinct to resist as Ketch ran possessive hands over his body, one arm settling around his waist, the other hand stroking slow circles against his hip.

"There's a good lad," Ketch murmured against his ear, lifting a hand to run through Mick's hair in a soothing gesture that only made Mick's skin crawl. "Knew you'd come around. Now, let's get you cleaned up a bit and get out there and do what needs doing, shall we?"

A few minutes later, Ketch and Mick returned to the conference room, where Morgan was leaning impatiently against the side of the table, tapping his fingers on its surface. The pain in Mick's wrist had subsided to a dull ache, but he still felt shaky and sick. He lagged a little behind Ketch, until Ketch grabbed his arm and propelled him forward between them, his rough grasp one last warning – not that Mick needed it, not anymore.

Mick hesitantly approached Morgan, his eyes downcast, his face hot with shame. He couldn't bring himself to look up, but he heard the eager satisfaction in the hunter's voice when he spoke.

"So he's changed his mind, then?"

When Mick glanced up at Ketch, he was studying Morgan with a cool, calculating smile. "Does it matter?"

Morgan was silent for a moment before smiling back, reaching out to pull Mick closer to him. "No."

The sound of the bunker's heavy metal door closing behind Ketch echoed in the large room. Yet there was no relief for Mick in his departure – not with Sam Winchester still looming over him, too close, so close that Mick could feel the heat coming off Sam's body where it almost brushed against his. Sam, who was strong enough to break Mick with his bare hands, to force him in any way he wanted, no matter how hard Mick tried to fight.

Sam, whom he'd foolishly believed was _different_.

Ketch enjoyed hurting him, liked to tie him down and take his time, wringing suffering and humiliation from him with expert hands until Mick begged, in tears, for him to stop – and then continuing a while longer, because when Mick was broken and desperate and pleading, that was when Ketch _really_ enjoyed it. Ketch liked the fact that he held all the power – that Mick was helpless in his grasp.

And apparently – Sam liked that, too.

He was still touching Mick, one hand resting against his waist. Still smiling, the same cool smile he'd worn when negotiating with Ketch.

" _Please_ …" The single word escaped Mick's lips, and he closed his eyes, ashamed at how easily he was reduced to this. "Sam, I – I wasn't trying to – to fight you, I swear it." He managed to keep his voice quiet, almost steady, as he tried to explain. "I – I'll do what you want. You – don't have to hurt me…"

The pleading words, the open submission in Mick's voice, were both for Sam's benefit, and for Ketch's. Mick knew that he was probably listening by now, from his vehicle, via the tiny bug that Ketch had sent him in wearing – the top button of the shirt he wore, that didn't quite match the others. He wanted Ketch to know that he was behaving himself, doing as he was told. The last thing he wanted was to endure whatever nightmare Sam might have in store for him, only to return to headquarters and face further punishment.

Sam was quiet for a moment, his voice strangely thoughtful. "What if that _is_ what I want?" he asked, and Mick felt sick. "To hurt you?"

"Then…" Mick swallowed slowly, struggling to maintain control. "… you'll get that, too. I – I won't stop you."

Sam let out a harsh little laugh, a derisive smirk on his lips. "Like you could."

Mick's stomach lurched; he'd fucked up again. "I-I know I couldn't," he stammered. "Please, I didn't mean…"

Mick's words abruptly broke off as Sam grabbed the collar of his shirt in one huge fist, shoving him back against the wall and snarling, "Shut your mouth, whore."

Mick bit down on his lower lip to silence the impulse he felt to explain, to apologize, to try to talk his way out. He braced himself for pain, noting with dismay that Sam had accidentally caught the microphone in his fist along with the collar of Mick's shirt. Ketch wouldn't be able to hear what was going on in the room, and he was certain to blame Mick for that later.

Sam leaned in very close, and Mick's heart hammered in his chest as Sam's free hand rose to cup the back of his head, holding him in place as Sam's lips brushed Mick's ear.

"Is he listening?"

Mick froze. He swallowed hard, his lips parting, though he didn't dare respond.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," Sam whispered. His thumb rubbed against the back of Mick's neck, oddly gentle, as if he meant it to be reassuring. "I'm _not_. I just need to know… can he hear us right now?"

Mick hesitated a moment, then nodded hurriedly. Ketch would be furious if he found out… but he wasn't here, and Sam _was_. Mick wasn't ready to believe Sam's promise, and he wasn't about to risk angering Sam to test it.

"Can he see us?" Sam asked further, his mouth so close to Mick's ear, his words barely breathed out so that Mick knew even if the mike had been uncovered, it wouldn't have picked them up. "Any cameras?"

Mick shook his head, biting his lip as Sam drew back to face him. Mick couldn't seem to draw his gaze away from the fistful of fabric that concealed the button bug, held just in front of his face, until Sam once again reached out a hand to tilt his head up. Mick knew what Sam expected, and immediately obeyed, meeting his eyes. The hard edge of cruelty was gone from Sam's face, and his eyes were warm and sympathetic. Sam gestured toward his hand, a questioning look in his eyes – so Mick nodded again, confirming the answer to Sam's silent question.

Sam nodded slowly in acknowledgement, holding one finger to his lips as he released his grip on Mick's shirt. Mick fell back against the wall, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His heart was still racing. This was bad – really, _really_ bad. He wasn't sure what Sam intended to do, but he knew that Ketch wouldn't like it. But if he refused to go along with Sam's orders, Sam might hurt him, despite his promises. Either way, he was buggered beyond the telling of it.

All he could do was take each moment as it came, assess what he had to do in order to survive it – and right now, what he had to do was to obey Sam Winchester. He just kept quiet, as he'd been ordered, warily watching Sam for further instruction.

"Take off your clothes."

Sam's voice, sharp and commanding again, cut through his thoughts and made his stomach clench with fear. Mick nodded to indicate his compliance, hands shaking as he automatically moved to obey. His battered wrist ached, and his fingers fumbled with buttons that should have been the work of a few seconds. He swore softly under his breath, feeling panic bubbling up in his chest, choking him.

Sam moved toward him swiftly, and Mick flinched, bracing himself for a blow. Then, suddenly, Sam's large hands were warm and gentle over his, stilling them. He looked up to meet Sam's eyes, and Sam gave him a pointed look, drawing in an exaggeratedly slow, even breath. Mick nodded, struggling to steady his breathing and calm himself down, trying his best to match Sam for a couple of breaths. Sam nodded, smiling encouragingly, and Mick felt a little better, a little more relaxed, just at the warmth of his approval.

"Come on, get on with it!" Sam snapped, reaching for Mick's shirt and deliberately bumping the tiny microphone in the process – but his hands remained gentle as he unbuttoned Mick's shirt the rest of the way for him, then backed off to allow Mick to take it the rest of the way off himself. As Mick folded the shirt and hung it over the back of a chair, then reached for the button of his jeans and unfastened that as well, Sam turned away from him for a moment, reaching for something on the table.

Mick's mouth was dry, cold fear creeping up in him again as he slid out of trousers and underwear, allowing them to fall to the floor. So far Sam hadn't hurt him, but he was still completely exposed, vulnerable to whatever Sam might decide to do. Mick looked up warily as Sam turned back toward him.

Sam was holding his long overcoat, the one Mick had noticed lying across the table when he'd entered the bunker, the one that had made him idly observe that Sam must have just recently returned from somewhere. Without a word, Sam draped the massive garment around Mick's shoulders, pulling it closed in front of him and holding it there.

Mick stared up at him, startled by the compassion in Sam's eyes, and suddenly his own eyes burned. He swallowed slowly, abruptly overwhelmed by the unexpected tenderness, the simple respect in Sam's gesture. Sam's expression softened as he seemed to recognize something in Mick's face, and he pulled Mick gently closer by the collar of the coat, leaning in to whisper against his ear again.

"I mean it. Not gonna hurt you. All right?"

Mick swallowed hard, nodding and closing his eyes for a moment against the tears that rose unbidden, tears of overwhelming _relief_.

"Get over here!" Sam's voice was rough, angry and impatient, but this time Mick recognized it for what it was – one last bit of false information for the microphone. Even as he spoke, Sam placed a hand low against Mick's back and steered him out of the room and down a hallway lined with doors on either side.

"It's all right," Sam said once they were too far away for the bug to pick it up, though his voice remained hushed and cautious. "Trust me, okay? It's all gonna be all right."

Mick desperately wanted to believe him, but he knew how dangerous Ketch could be. He knew that if Ketch found out about the ruse Sam had just pulled, he would be furious. And he'd gone along with it, helped Sam when he should have just followed his orders and Ketch's plan. Mick wasn't sure exactly what Sam intended, but he felt as if a door had closed behind him and there was no going back. Whatever intrigue the younger Winchester was planning, Mick was in the middle of it now – like it or not. And Ketch would inevitably find out, and he would pay for it.

Sam opened a door and ushered Mick in ahead of him – and Mick froze, just beyond the door, his chest tight, his breath catching in his throat, when he realized where they were.

For all Sam's gentle promises, they'd still ended up in Sam's bedroom.

Sam's voice was soft, quietly commanding, as he gestured toward the bed and instructed, "Sit down" – and then turned to close and lock the door behind them.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam closed his bedroom door behind them, locked it – then stood for a moment, his eyes closed, catching his breath and steadying himself – and still trying to process. Sam had seen a lot of unsettling things in his unnaturally long life, but what he'd just witnessed in the library still managed to make his skin crawl.

Ketch had always kind of creeped him out, but he'd just revealed himself to be a whole other level of pervert. Sam was repulsed and appalled by his offer – as well as by the blatant, unapologetic way in which he'd made it. So sure that Sam would take him up on it… and so certain that Mick would simply go along with it, as well.

But Mick had done just that – stood there in silent submission while Ketch offered him up like some sort of plaything, with no right to refuse… no rights of his own at all, apparently. When Sam had noticed Mick's loss of confidence, the absence of his usual humor, he'd assumed it was because of the loss of his position, and Ketch's taking over.

 _This_ , however – this was beyond anything he'd imagined.

And when Mick had disrobed in the library, Sam had gotten a glimpse of what might have caused such a drastic change. His body was covered in bruises and other suspicious marks – layered, not all from the same assault. While Mick hadn't offered any resistance tonight, it was clear that he had, at other points – and he'd suffered for it, enough that by this point, Mick was clearly scared to death of Ketch, and well under his control.

But Sam wasn't. His jaw clenched, and he drew in a deep breath, maintaining control. His desire to rip Ketch apart with his own two hands would have to wait, at least until he'd had a chance to assess the situation. Sam let his breath out slowly, then turned to face Mick.

Mick was sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, staring up at him through wide, wary eyes – and before Sam could speak, his movements halting and uncertain, he slid Sam's coat back off his shoulders. Sam reacted immediately, swiftly crossing the room and grabbing the edges of the coat before Mick could expose himself any further.

"Mick, wait – _no_!"

Mick flinched, his eyes confused and fearful. "I – you said…"

"I said sit down," Sam clarified, crouching down in front of Mick to make himself less threatening, gently pulling the coat back up over Mick's shoulders. "Nothing else." He swallowed hard as his hand brushed against Mick's collar bone, his eyes taking in a hand-shaped bruise low on Mick's neck. " _Nothing else_."

Mick looked away, letting out a shaky breath, visibly miserable with confusion. "I just – I don't know what you want," he confessed softly, his voice tense, desperate. "Please, just – tell me what you want me to do."

Sam hesitated, aware that it might make things momentarily worse, but wanting to put them on even ground – and wanting to get comfortable for the potentially long conversation to come. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed next to Mick, though he held his hands up in front of him and made sure to keep a couple of feet's distance between them.

"I just want you to sit here," Sam insisted, keeping his voice quiet and calm. "And – I'm just going to sit here – and we're going to talk. And that's all we're going to do. Okay?"

Mick nodded slowly, but he still seemed anxious, his good hand cradling his injured wrist in his lap as he watched Sam, wary blue-grey eyes darting toward Sam's hands any time they moved. It was difficult for Sam to reconcile his behavior with what he'd witnessed the night they'd met, or even on their more recent hunts.

"Dude," Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We've worked together, hunted together - why would you even think I want to hurt you like that? When have I ever given you the impression that I'm that kind of guy?"

Mick glared up at Sam, quiet defiance behind eyes bright with unshed tears – and Sam was relieved to see that there was some spirit left in him after all, even if that spirit was probably to blame for the bruises that covered him.

"Oh, I don't know," Mick began, his voice trembling a little, but sharp with quiet sarcasm. "Perhaps just now, when you told Ketch you wanted to fuck me – _specifically_ _because_ I don't want you to." His voice rose a little as he continued, "Or when you manhandled me up against a wall and – and put your hands all over me like you own me… or maybe when you ordered me to disrobe and then _brought me to your bedroom_."

Mick stopped abruptly, his eyes widening a little, as if he'd only just realized how much of his anger and resentment he'd allowed to show – and he swallowed hard, looking away, picking anxiously at the bandage on his wrist. His voice was much quieter, careful, when he spoke again.

"Perhaps… some part of that might have a bit to do with it."

Sam winced. Mick had a valid point; it was possible he'd been a bit _too_ convincing. "Right," he agreed with a slow nod. "I – probably should have chosen a different room for this conversation. And the rest – I – I was trying to make it believable…"

Mick's voice was quiet, subdued, but with a stubborn edge to it that made Sam smile. "You succeeded."

Sam let out a rueful little huff of laughter, but it fell away immediately. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I just – I had to get you away from him. And – he gave me the chance, so I took it." Sam was quiet for a moment. " _Why?_ Why did he make this offer to me in the first place? I mean – did he just – wake up this morning and go, 'hey, you know who's probably an evil sexual sadist? Sam Winchester'." He frowned. "I mean, I really hope not."

"He believes that you're – attracted to me," Mick explained, quiet but steady, though his eyes remained downcast. "And – it's worked before, so…"

A hot rush of rage swept through Sam as he realized what Mick was saying.

"He's done this to you before," he concluded. "Pimped you out like some kind of…" Mick flinched, and Sam softened, guilty. "I'm sorry. It's just – what kind of a sick creep would even take him up on something like this?"

"It was – just the one," Mick whispered.

As if that somehow made it more acceptable.

"Who?" Sam demanded. "A hunter? Like me?"

"A hunter," Mick confirmed, venturing to look up at Sam again. His eyes searched Sam's face for a moment before he concluded softly, "Not like you."

"What's his name?"

Mick shook his head. "Don't. Please."

Sam knew that Mick was still a bit afraid of him, and very much inclined to do what Sam asked of him with very little persuasion. He knew that he _could_ push until Mick gave in and gave him the answer he wanted – and that was was exactly why he couldn't. Sam was quiet for a moment, glancing at the bruises that still showed under the collar of his coat.

"Did he do this to you?" He lifted a hand, but didn't quite touch. "The hunter?"

Mick glanced up at Sam, uncertain, then bit his lip and looked away. Sam saw enough in his eyes, though, to know that he'd guessed wrong. Which meant there was only one other explanation, the one Sam had already concluded was true.

"Ketch."

"I – I told him I wouldn't…" Mick hesitated. "… come here, tonight. He – he said I was – insubordinate. I – needed to be punished."

"Because you didn't want to…" Sam stopped, wrestling for control of the anger he felt rising in his voice; it would do Mick no good to hear it. He took a breath, kept his tone calm and controlled as he went on. "So he beat you. Choked you. For – trying to fight back."

Mick was silent.

"But… this wasn't the only time," Sam pointed out, thinking of the layered bruising he'd noticed before. "He does this… often, doesn't he?"

"When I – disobey, or – or fail in my duties." Mick's voice was soft, sad. "I – fail often." His tone was level and calm, but Mick's hand trembled as it absently rubbed at his injured wrist.

Sam frowned, anger boiling up in him again, because he knew the answer before he even asked. He reached out a hand to carefully touch Mick's hand, stilling it – and Mick looked up at him, trapped, because he knew what Sam was going to ask.

"This, too," Sam said softly. " _He_ did this. It wasn't a hunting accident."

Mick shook his head. "No," he conceded, barely over a whisper. "It wasn't."

"What about your superiors? His superiors?" Sam asked. "They can't be okay with this."

"I'm certain they wouldn't be," Mick agreed. "But – they won't believe me. I'll be punished, and he'll be… _furious_ …" Mick swallowed hard, and Sam caught the haunted look in his eyes before he looked away.

Sam was quiet for a moment, considering. He wasn't _quite_ serious when at last he spoke again, his voice cold, deceptively casual. "We could always kill him."

Mick looked up at him in alarm. "No. If an American hunter kills Ketch, the British Men of Letters will send in – reinforcements, and – it won't be pretty, Sam. There'll be no reasoning with them from that point."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I'm kidding. Kind of." He was quiet for a moment, thinking. "What we need is evidence," he concluded. "Something we can present to the guys in charge so they'll remove him."

Mick considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. That would be nice. Don't see how…"

"And you need to be away from him," Sam continued, and Mick fell silent, looking up at him warily, but with a glimmer of something like hope in his eyes. "I have an idea," Sam told him, holding his gaze. "And I know it can work – but it's not going to be easy. You're going to have to trust me. Do you think you can do that?"

They talked for a long time, working out the details of Sam's plan, until Sam was confident that they could pull it off, and Mick was struggling to keep his eyes open. Sam got up and retrieved an old pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt that he didn't think Dean would miss, and gave them to Mick to change into.

"You can sleep here," he offered, quick to head off any fears or confusion about his intentions by explaining, "I'm going to wait for Dean in the library. I'll need to explain the situation to him when he gets in."

He left Mick alone to change out of Sam's coat and into the pajamas, and went to wait for Dean – but Dean didn't come in. Sam half-heartedly returned to his studies while he waited, but he couldn't focus. He found himself rereading the same passage repeatedly, without really registering any of it. When the words began to blur together before his eyes, he finally gave into the temptation to rest them… just for a minute… and dozed off with his head on the table.

He awoke a short time later to the buzzing of his phone. It was a text from Dean, saying that he was all right, Cas just needed to talk, and he wasn't sure if he'd be back before morning.

Sam scoffed affectionately at that. No one ever needed to talk for _that_ long. Especially not Cas.

He wondered – not for the first time – when exactly his brother and the angel had first given in to the underlying feelings for each other they'd hidden for so long – and he wondered how long it would be before they realized that he _knew_?

Sam gave up on study and went to Dean's room to lie down. He slept restlessly, his mind preoccupied with the next morning, and woke up around eight, heading into the kitchen to make coffee. He rethought that a minute later, and put on a pot of hot water as well, before taking out their limited tea options. He considered making breakfast – who knew when Mick had last had a decent meal? – but then decided that if the state of his own stomach was anything to go by, Mick would probably be too queasy to keep anything down.

Mick came into the kitchen just a short while later, still wearing Dean's castoffs. Sam gave him a smile and nodded toward the seat at the table across from his. "There's coffee, or tea – whichever you prefer."

Mick ignored both and sat down across from Sam as instructed. He looked weary and worried, and a little sick. Sam was glad he'd decided to pass on making breakfast, as it would have certainly gone completely wasted.

"You ready for this?" he asked quietly, watching Mick with concern.

Mick swallowed slowly. His eyes were on his hands where they rested on the table, his right hand closed around his left wrist in a gesture that was beginning to seem a bit protective. He shook his head at last with a shaky sigh.

"I don't know."

Sam reached across the table to touch Mick's arm, and Mick looked up at him, his eyes large and wary.

"Just trust me," Sam urged him gently. "I'll get you out of there, I promise. You just have to trust me and play along, all right?"

Mick nodded. "Right."

Sam hesitated, but knew he had to make sure they were on the same page as to what this plan was going to require. "Thing is…" he began at last, his words slow and cautious, "… it has to be convincing. If he's going to buy it…"

"We're going to have to sell it," Mick concluded, quiet and grim. "I understand."

An hour later, they were pulling up outside the British headquarters. Sam had texted ahead to let Ketch know they were on their way, and he was waiting for them in the parking area as they pulled inside, parked Cas's truck, and got out. Mick walked a little ahead of Sam, his eyes down, as if he couldn't wait to put some space between the two of them. Sam's pace was confident and unhurried. Ketch straightened a bit as they neared him, meeting Sam's eyes with a knowing smile.

"Mr. Winchester. How did you enjoy your evening?"

"My answer is yes," Sam replied with a smirk. "I've decided to accept your offer. But, I do have a few… conditions."

Ketch's smile faded a bit. He glanced toward Mick, who didn't meet his eyes, just stayed quiet and still, off to the side, as if desperately trying to avoid the attention of either man. Sam had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that Mick was a fairly decent actor. Of course – this particular act had an unsettling touch of truth to it.

"What sort of conditions?" Ketch asked, a touch of suspicion in his voice.

Sam smiled coolly. "I don't like to share my toys. I want exclusive rights. If he's mine whenever I want, then – I want him all the time. No one else gets to touch him."

Ketch frowned, hesitating just a moment before shaking his head. "No, I'm sorry, Sam, but that doesn't work for me. He's quite a valuable little bargaining chip – as you've just seen for yourself. I could use him to recruit other hunters…"

" _Or_ ," Sam cut him off, his smile becoming a satisfied smirk. "you could recruit other hunters by sheer virtue of my endorsement of your organization. That was the idea from the start, right? I sign on – the other American hunters, hopefully, follow? So – don't you think it's in your best interest to worry about signing _me_ on, first? And that's not going to happen. Not unless I get what I want."

Ketch's jaw tightened with anger, but his tone remained cool as he responded. "Point taken. Still, he belongs to the Men of Letters. His primary purpose is to serve _us_ – not you. You can't simply take him away indefinitely. He's my primary assistant."

Sam was quiet for a moment, considering. He hadn't actually expected Ketch to agree to so much. It was the most basic rule of negotiation – to always ask for more than you were willing to accept. If he was careful, he could still manage to ensure Mick's safety before leaving this conversation.

"Fine," he relented at last, terse and mildly irritated. "Half time, then. As long as we're not on a case, you get him during the work day – I get him at night." He grinned, glancing toward Mick, who shifted uneasily under his gaze, looking up anxiously at Ketch for his response.

"Not just strictly the work day," Ketch countered. "Twelve hours on, twelve hours off."

"Good," Sam agreed. "But…" He held up a finger. "… one little thing." He glanced toward Mick, beckoning him forward with one hand, his voice soft and deceptively gentle. "Come here, sweetheart."

Mick hesitated just a moment, looking toward Ketch, but then obeyed, stifling a startled little cry when Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him between them. Sam kept one hand on Mick's shoulder, using the other to tilt his head to the side and then pull the collar of his shirt down to expose the bruises on his neck. Mick closed his eyes, tense and wary, but unresisting.

" _This_ … doesn't work for me," Sam informed Ketch matter-of-factly. "I don't want him all marked up like this when he comes to me." Sam let go of Mick's shirt, but immediately wrapped his arm around him, drawing him back against his chest and holding him there, his hand sliding down, palm flat against Mick's stomach. He leaned in close, a breath away from Mick's neck, eyes locked onto Ketch as he explained in a hushed, suggestive tone. "I like to start with a clean canvas…"

Ketch smirked. "Understandable," he conceded. "But _you_ must understand, Sam… our boy here gets a bit… insolent, from time to time. I have to be able to keep him in hand." As he spoke, Ketch moved closer to the two of them, and Sam felt Mick's body tense against him, heard the release of his soft, shuddering breath.

"Of course," Sam agreed softly, tightening his arm around Mick, wishing he could offer some form of reassurance that wouldn't come cloaked in violence and menace. "I'd be more than happy to – take care of any disciplinary issues you might have with him. Just let me know when he needs punishing… and I'll handle it."

Ketch's amusement faded a little, and Sam saw something dark and jealous in his eyes for just a moment before he replied, "No, I'm sorry, Sam. I don't think it's quite worth it. You want an awful lot of control, for what amounts to very little in return. As long as you and your brother are divided on our cause, I'm afraid your affiliation with us might not be quite as convincing to the other hunters as I'd hoped."

Mick was trembling against Sam, his breath quick and shallow, and Sam understood his fear. He'd seen the bruises on Mick's body, knew that Ketch had made a habit recently of taking out his frustrations on Mick – and if Sam left Mick here, the deal having failed, Ketch was certain to be _extremely_ frustrated. Mick's only hope of _not_ being brutalized within the next few hours was for Sam to seal this deal, with the condition that Ketch couldn't leave a mark on him.

And the deal appeared to be slipping through Sam's fingers.

He spoke before he could stop himself, putting one last bold offer on the table – one he was sure would get Ketch to say yes.

"I can get you my brother."

Ketch was quiet for a moment, clearly caught off guard. "You're sure."

"He'll listen to me. I can convince him that this is the right move for us." Sam looked up at Ketch pointedly. " _If_ I get what I want in exchange."

"Hmm." Ketch considered for a moment. "Intriguing."

"But you know," Sam shrugged, letting go of Mick and pushing him away so that he stumbled a little toward Ketch. "If that's still not enough for you… "

"I didn't say that," Ketch pointed out – but his expression was calculating, noncommittal, and Sam wasn't at all sure that he was sold.

"You can't… actually be considering this."

Mick spoke up, and Sam suppressed his surprise. Mick was playing along well enough, but he'd seemed way too scared to actively participate in Sam's plan, beyond simply following instructions and doing as he was told.

Mick's voice was shaky, desperate, as he moved toward Ketch and grabbed his arm. "You _can't_. I work for the Men of Letters. I work for _you_. You can't just… _let_ him… do whatever he wants, whenever he wants." He swallowed hard, his eyes brimming with tears. " _Please_."

Ketch smiled at him, cool, unmoved, but with a warning edge to his soft words as he glanced pointedly down at Mick's hand on his arm before meeting his eyes again. "Careful, love."

Mick released Ketch's arm, taking a step back and lowering his gaze. "Please," he whispered. " _Please_."

Ketch studied him for a moment, tilting his head a little, thoughtful, before looking to Sam again with a grin. "Yes," he agreed. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Winchester, but – yes. I agree to your terms."

"Great." Sam's voice was light, cheerful, as he grabbed Mick's arm and spun him around, dragging him in close with an arm around his waist. "What's wrong?" he teased with an exaggerated pout. "Last night wasn't good for you?"

Mick kept his eyes down, completely yielding to Sam's manipulation as Sam moved him where he wanted him and how he wanted him. "N-no," he stammered. "It's not – I mean…"

"Shut up," Sam ordered softly, one arm behind Mick's head drawing him in close. Mick obeyed, and when he glanced up for just a moment, Sam could see the very real fear in his eyes, and felt a warm rush of admiration. Mick was scared, _really_ scared – and yet he'd managed to utilize that fear instead of letting it paralyze him. Sam leaned in close to Mick's ear, voice too soft for Ketch to pick it up as he whispered, "You are _amazing_."

Mick shivered, closing his eyes and shaking his head a little, as if Sam had said something much worse, promised some awful retaliation for Mick's attempt at escaping him – and Sam was once again impressed. He allowed the appreciative smile he felt to show on his lips as he drew back, looking toward Ketch again.

"I think he's being a little… _insolent_ right now, don't you? What do you say I take him home with me and deal with him now? You give me today – and I'll give you Dean. He'll be with me when I bring him back tomorrow."

Mick looked up at Ketch, desperation in his eyes. Ketch just smiled.

"Fine," he agreed.

Sam nodded, pleased with his success. Then his smile faded, and he held up a finger toward Ketch. "Oh… one more thing." He reached out and abruptly tore the top button from Mick's shirt, dropping it to the floor and crushing it beneath his shoe, even as Ketch moved forward a step, holding out a hand to stop him.

" _Wait_ …"

It was too late. Sam turned toward Ketch, ignoring Mick for the moment as he pointed down at the mess of destroyed metal at his feet.

" _This_ … won't happen again," Sam stated. "Or deal's off, and Dean and I will do nothing but warn American hunters _away_ from you every chance we get. I said I don't share. And that includes pervy listening in, too." Sam glared at him. "Or spying for your superiors. Whichever was the intention. Won't happen again."

Ketch took in Sam's words, the wreckage of the undoubtably expensive bug on the floor. Then he drew in a slow breath, and smiled, nodded. "Right," he conceded. "Understood."

"Good." Sam grabbed Mick's arm, roughly hauling him in close, and trailing his free hand teasingly down the bare patch of skin now exposed where the button had been torn away. "Better look on you anyway," he remarked with an appreciative grin.

Mick shivered, but didn't pull away. "Please," he whispered. "Sam – I – "

Sam drew back his fist as if to backhand Mick, and Mick flinched, falling silent. Sam glanced toward Ketch, then visibly restrained himself, as if just remembering that they had an audience. And he had just expressed to Ketch how much he disliked having an audience. He lowered his hand, pulling Mick in close, his hand cupping Mick's cheek as he reminded him in a soft, warning tone.

"I said… _shut up_."

Mick nodded, biting his lip, eyes closed, and Sam turned toward the car, dragging Mick along with him. He called over his shoulder to Ketch, "See you tomorrow."

Sam barely breathed as he backed the truck out of the warehouse and headed down the road, unable to relax as long as Ketch was still standing there, watching them. As they turned the corner out of sight, Mick turned in his seat, looking out the back window to confirm that they had made it, they were safe – before turning back around and releasing a heavy, shaky sigh.

Sam let out a breathless laugh of relief. "We did it."

"Yeah." Mick sounded a little distant, a little shell-shocked, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "Yeah."

"Okay, I meant it back there, Mick. You were amazing. I should have remembered, you've got some acting skills, dude. You did great with the Alpha Vamp, too…"

Mick winced a little, and Sam regretted the reference; it was understandably a sore topic of conversation for Mick.

"Thank you," Mick replied softly, looking out the window for a moment before turning to look at Sam. Sam glanced away from the road to meet his eyes for a moment, and was touched by the gratitude he saw there, as Mick reached out to touch Sam's hand on the seat between them. " _Thank you_."

Sam shook his head, looking back at the road. "Not a problem, man. That fucking psychopath needs to go down. And we're going to make it happen."

Mick withdrew his hand and looked away, silent, uneasy.

" _Hey_." Sam waited until Mick was looking at him again, doubt visible on his face. "We _are_. We're going to make sure that he can't do this to you or anyone else, ever again."

Mick nodded. "Okay," he agreed, still sounding unconvinced – not that Sam could blame him. Already, he'd put a lot on the line, risked a lot to place his trust in Sam – and Sam had no intention of letting him down.

"Trust me," Sam assured him. "We're going to deal with Ketch." He swallowed hard, staring through the windshield, apprehensions of a different nature rising to the surface as he swiftly closed the distance between them and the bunker. "But first – we've got to deal with my brother."


	5. Chapter 5

As they swiftly closed the distance to the bunker, the borrowed pickup truck rattling ominously, Sam felt his apprehensions rise. Dean was probably home by now – which was good, because Sam wanted to talk to him as soon as possible.

But he knew that Dean was not going to be happy with what he had to say.

After the debacle with the Alpha Vampire, Dean's opinion of the British Men of Letters was, understandably, even lower than it had been before. Sam just had to hope that once Dean understood _why_ Sam had done it, he'd also understand that there had been no other choice.

Sam glanced over at Mick, who was staring out the side window, anxiously picking at the bandage on his wrist again. He glanced toward Sam, hesitating as if he wanted to say something, but then stopped himself, staring down at his lap. He looked small and scared, as if he was trying to take up as little space and provide as little inconvenience as possible. When Sam thought about the confident, self-assured man he'd met months earlier, he felt a little sick at the thought of what it must have taken to reduce him to this point.

Leaving him there, with Ketch, and no protection whatsoever against what Ketch could do to him – Sam couldn't have even considered it. And regardless of Dean's opinion of the British Men of Letters, Sam was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to leave Mick at Ketch's mercy, either.

And if he was wrong, well – Sam would just have to make it clear that it simply wasn't an option.

"It's gonna be all right," Sam offered, quiet but firm. And if there was a touch more certainty in his tone than he actually felt, well – he thought it was merited under the circumstances. "I promise."

Sam parked the truck in the garage and led the way up into the bunker, Mick lagging behind him. As they neared the library, the sound of raised voices reached Sam's ears, and Mick's pace slowed even further.

"Come on," Sam urged him gently. "It's okay. Just – let me explain to Dean, all right?"

Mick nodded. Sam figured it was pretty much a non-issue, anyway; Mick didn't seem inclined to do much talking, himself.

As the library came into view, the words of the heated discussion taking place there became distinguishable.

"… must have stolen it! It's the only explanation."

"Who'd steal that hunk of crap, Cas, seriously? And you left your keys. Which means there's a much more likely explanation…"

As Sam entered the library, he saw his brother, face to face with a very angry Cas. Dean didn't seem at all bothered by the absence of personal space between them. In fact, he seemed more amused by the whole conversation than anything, his eyes lit with laughter even as he tried to school his expression into something suitably serious for Cas's level of upset.

"It is _not_ … a _hunk of crap_ ," Cas insisted, eyes narrowed. "How would you feel if I called your Impala a hunk of crap?"

Dean laughed, meeting Sam's eyes as he entered the room, but not drawing attention to his presence just yet. "I'd call in the white coats, 'cause my baby's perfection. Your old clunker out there doesn't even compare. If that thing was mine, I'd sell it for scrap."

"It's _not_ 'out there'," Cas objected, frustration in his voice as he turned and pointed toward the bunker entrance, "because _someone_ …"

His voice trailed off, and he stared at Sam for a long moment. Dean visibly fought to suppress his laughter – and lost when Sam sheepishly held up Cas's keys. Cas turned toward Dean with a death glare, before stalking toward Sam and snatching his keys from his hand, storming off toward the garage. "I hope you haven't damaged her!" he grumbled. "She's… temperamental."

Dean let out a scoffing sound, calling after Cas, "That thing ain't a she, Cas, it's a ' _what the hell is that'_!"

The lights in the library flickered a bit, and Sam glanced up at them before giving Dean a dubious look. "You have to keep poking the bear?"

"Eh, he's cute when he's mad." Dean shrugged, his eyes following Cas's retreat with a bit more softness and warmth than he probably realized. "More like poking a koala than a grizzly."

"Koalas are actually pretty dangerous," Sam pointed out. "And they're not even technically…" He sighed, a slight smile rising to his lips as he took in Dean's expression, and realized that Dean wasn't even paying attention, anyway. "Anyway. It was kinda – unplanned."

"My fault," Mick spoke up, taking a step forward and looking up to meet Dean's gaze. "Sam was… helping _me_. My apologies for the conflict."

Dean's smile fell away, the lightness fading from his tone as he regarded Mick coolly. "What kind of trouble are you getting my brother into this time? Almost getting him killed by vamps wasn't enough?"

Mick winced, but opened his mouth to try to explain. Sam quieted him with a hand on his shoulder, giving Dean a pointed look as he insisted, "It's _not_ his fault." He looked at Mick, although Mick's eyes were focused on the floor. "Not even a little. Dean – something's happened, and – just let me explain, okay?"

Dean waited, silently expectant, as Sam turned toward Mick, who looked up at him, dutifully awaiting instructions. He looked pale, sick with fear, and Sam understood why. The plan itself was risky enough. If Dean refused to go along with it, all Mick had to look forward to was more suffering at Ketch's hands – immediately, as punishment for the failed deal, and later on, whenever Ketch decided he needed a punching bag, or a pretty little incentive to whore out to the dregs of the hunting community.

It wasn't gonna happen. Not on Sam's watch.

"Wait here," Sam instructed quietly. "We're gonna go talk for a minute, and we'll be right back."

Mick nodded, cautiously taking a seat at the table.

Dean seemed less than pleased with the arrangement. "Don't touch anything," he grumbled as Sam led him away down the hall toward his own room. "Sam, what the hell?" he demanded as soon as the door was closed behind them. "What's so urgent you've gotta take Cas's truck and run off without calling or texting or anything – and then you show up with _him_ , and there's some kinda problem. _What_ problem?"

"Ketch is the problem."

Sam wouldn't have wanted to try to explain to Dean in front of Mick. It was difficult and awkward enough alone, and Dean's reaction was pretty much exactly as Sam expected. He listened in silence as Sam explained the visit he'd received the night before, and Ketch's offer. Dean stared at Sam for a long moment, still processing, before finally finding his voice again.

"Sam – what the fuck?"

"I know."

"No, seriously, _what the fuck_?"

" _I know_."

Dean stared up at Sam in disgusted disbelief. "So he tried to just _give_ Mick to you like some kind of – like a fucking _sex slave_?"

Sam winced, glancing toward the door though he knew they were far enough away that Mick couldn't hear. Then he nodded. "Yeah, _exactly_ like a fucking sex slave."

Dean dragged one hand down over his mouth, turning away for a moment before facing Sam again. "So what, now the Brits have branched out from research and hunting to _sex trafficking_ , too? What the _fuck_ , man?"

"Mick's pretty sure the higher ups don't have any idea of what Ketch is doing to him. He thinks they'd stop it if they knew, but – he doesn't think they'll believe him. He's kind of – not in their good graces since…"

"Since he almost got you killed along with the rest of his team?"

Dean crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, his tone challenging and a little resentful, and Sam felt an inexplicable sense of irritation.

"He didn't almost get me killed," he argued. "The whole thing was a mess, they weren't prepared, no, but it wasn't Mick's fault. Maybe if Ketch had been where he was supposed to be instead of off where the vampires _weren't_ , trying to recruit you…"

"You were probably safer without him there." Dean sighed, relenting a little. "Sounds like he's a real piece of work."

"He's done this to Mick before," Sam pointed out. "At least once that Mick told me about. And – he's been beating him if he doesn't do what he's told. You should have seen him, Dean, he's covered in bruises. And his wrist – I don't know if it's broken, or…"

"Wait, wait a second…" Dean held up a hand, frowning. "How did you manage to see all this? How did you manage to get him alone _at all_?"

Sam hesitated. If Dean was upset by what he'd heard already – he _really_ wasn't going to like _this_.

"I – accepted Ketch's offer."

Dean's eyes went wide. He stared at Sam for a long moment in disbelief, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful, as if he suspected Sam might have just lost his mind. "You – did _what_?"

"I told Ketch I needed to think about it, and – I asked to – to keep Mick here for the night. That's how I got him alone, and found out what Ketch has been doing to him. So – I told Ketch I would accept his offer, with conditions."

Dean blinked, considering for a moment. Finally, he nodded, reluctantly understanding, but his eyes were wary, his words slow and cautious. "Such as?"

"Such as, no one else gets to touch Mick, at all. He can't keep… selling him as incentive to hunters, as long as he's selling him to me. And Ketch himself, he can't hurt Mick while he's… you know, _mine_."

Dean's eyes widened, and Sam winced, regretting his own choice of words, which certainly weren't helping Dean to be any _less_ freaked out by all of this. Dean swallowed hard, looking away for a moment, thoughtful, and then nodding slowly.

"Okay. Okay, so… that way he's safe, whether he's here or not."

"Exactly." Sam sighed, relieved that Dean at least seemed to understand the reasoning behind his choices. "And he's gonna be here about half the time. Which will make it easier to plan. _And_ to keep him safe." Sam was quiet for a moment. "Ketch is a sociopath, Dean. The guy's out of control. I'm not sure about the Brits as an organization, but Ketch is dangerous. If he's capable of that kind of twisted shit, who knows what else he's capable of? The British Men of Letters may or may not be okay, as a whole, but Ketch – he's _got_ to go. So I figured, the best way we can do that is: from the inside."

"Makes sense." Dean nodded slowly, then frowned, looking up at Sam with dawning suspicion. "Wait… _we_?"

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath. "Ketch had some conditions of his own. But Mick and I – we talked a lot last night. We have a plan. You're – probably not going to like it. But – it was the only way."

" _What_ was the only way?"

Sam sighed. "I – wasn't enough. He wanted you, too."

" _No_." Dean took a step back, holding up one hand in a halting gesture and shaking his head. "Sam – no fucking way…"

"Dean, just hear me out, okay?" Sam moved with Dean, reaching out a hand to catch his arm and keep him from turning away. "Ketch already agreed to give us the freedom to do things our own way…"

"We already have that!" Dean pointed out, shaking Sam's hand off his arm and raising his voice in frustration. "You just finished telling me what kind of – sick pervert freaks these guys are, and now you want us to join up…"

" _Fake_ join up," Sam corrected. "Dean, please… it's only temporary. And it's not for real. We just work a few cases Ketch hands us, and in the mean time Mick's gathering information while he's there, and we're gathering information wherever we can, and once we have enough evidence to take Ketch down, we're done."

Dean sighed heavily, turning away and shaking his head for a moment before facing Sam again with a dark, dubious look. "Can't we just take him _out_ , and call it a day?"

"He's still human, Dean," Sam reminded him, albeit reluctantly. "And… apparently, if we did that, it'd bring down the full wrath of the British Men of Letters on us, and I don't think we want that – at least not until we know just what we're dealing with. Which is another great reason to _get inside_ and get more information."

"You just volunteer me, without even discussing it first?" Dean glared up at Sam, sounding angry and resentful – but maybe just the slightest bit closer to accepting Sam's plan.

"You could always say no," Sam pointed out quietly. "And I knew that when I said yes."

Dean was silent, considering – so Sam went in for the kill.

"I couldn't leave him there, Dean. You didn't see him with Ketch, he's fucking _terrified_ of him. And if I'd have walked away from the deal, Ketch would have taken it out on Mick. I had to get him out of there – no matter what I had to say. But – you can say no, now, if you really want to. It's your choice."

Dean gave Sam an exasperated look. "Really? That's how you want to play this?"

"Hey, you didn't agree to it. I get that." Sam held up his hands, conciliatory. He waited a beat, holding Dean's gaze as he concluded, "You want me to go out there and tell Mick that we've decided not to do anything about Ketch – to let him keep running things how he likes and beating the shit out of Mick every time he has a bad day, and pimping him out to the lowest common denominator hunters as their fucking sign-on bonus… okay. That's what we'll do."

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean snapped, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands in defeat. "You suck, you know that? The least you could do is fight fair."

Sam had to suppress a smile. "You know I'm right."

Dean glared at him. "Yeah," he admitted at last with a weary sigh. "Yeah, I do. Doesn't mean I have to like getting railroaded into it." He punctuated his words with a dark glare.

"I know," Sam admitted, lowering his gaze for a moment before meeting Dean's eyes again, apologetic and earnest. "I'm sorry. But Mick can't get out of this on his own, and I _know_ this can work, so – are you with me?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head a little – and then looking up at Sam with mingled affection and irritation in his eyes. "You know I am."

" _Thank you_." Relief fell over him, and Sam felt himself relax for possibly the first time since Mick and Ketch had walked into the bunker a few nights earlier. "Come on," he said, opening the door and stepping out into the hall. "We need to get back in there. Mick's probably freaking out by now."

Mick had been waiting just a minute or so when the angel Castiel returned from the garage. He stopped abruptly, startled to see Mick there alone.

"Sam and Dean… needed to talk," Mick explained, wincing at the vague, weak nature of the explanation and hoping Castiel wouldn't ask for any more detail than that.

He didn't.

"Tell Sam to call and ask next time," he said, sounding grudgingly less irritated than when he'd left. "It appears he's done no damage, but I'd prefer to know when he's going to take my vehicle."

Mick nodded. "Okay."

Castiel headed back toward the garage, but turned after a couple of steps, hesitant. "And… tell Dean to… text me," he finished at last, awkward.

Mick nodded again, and Castiel left. Mick was relieved. The angel's inhuman presence was vaguely unsettling to him most of the time, but especially now, when Sam and Dean would be back any moment with a decision. He didn't want to talk about it in front of Castiel.

He didn't reallywant to talk about it in front of Dean or Sam, either.

"Okay…"

Sam's voice, firm but tense, drew his focus to the doorway through which they'd disappeared – the one he remembered led to Sam's bedroom – and Mick swiftly rose to his feet, giving Sam his full attention as he entered the room.

"Dean's up to speed," Sam quickly informed him. "And he's on board."

The relief Mick felt was overwhelming. "Thank you." He directed the words toward Dean. "Thank you so much."

"Yeah, well…" Dean looked away awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with Mick's gratitude. "I always knew there was something wrong with those prissy Limey douchebags." He glanced back at Mick uneasily, tacking on a half-hearted, "No offense. Just so long as we're clear Sam and I are _not_ signing on for real. We weren't before, and we sure as hell aren't now that we can see what a bunch of creepy assholes they really are…"

"It's not the Men of Letters, it's Ketch!" The heat of indignation he felt at Dean's words drove Mick to object. Only once both brothers were fully focused on him, dubious expressions on their faces, did he pause to consider that his outburst might have been ill-advised. He swallowed hard, looking at first Sam and then Dean, holding their gaze as he insisted, quiet but certain, "The Men of Letters wouldn't approve of how Ketch is running things. He's exploiting his position, using it to further his own interests. They – they'd stop him if they knew…"

"Then why don't you tell them?"

Dean's question was quiet, matter of fact - and while Mick didn't have a ready answer, he knew why not. Just the thought of how they might react, whose side they might take, set a cold, quivering knot in the pit of his stomach. He looked away, swallowing hard.

"That's the plan."

Sam spoke up, his voice gentle but decisive, and Mick startled a little at the feeling of Sam's large hand settling on his shoulder – but Sam didn't grasp or shove or jerk him closer. It was a simple, reassuring touch, like Mick hadn't felt in – as long as he could remember. It was the first touch in months that did not make him feel afraid.

"We're going to tell them," Sam continued. "But only once we have enough evidence on Ketch that there's no chance they'd believe him over Mick. We're just going to work cases with the Brits, while quietly gathering evidence, and when the time is right, we're going to report Ketch to his authorities, and they'll remove him from his position."

"And if they don't?" Dean questioned a grim note of worry in his voice. "Or if they send someone to take his place who's even worse?"

"Not possible."

The soft words escaped Mick's lips before he knew he was going to speak them, and he glanced up when the Winchesters went silent. He then straightened, cleared his throat and looked away, not wanting to see the concerned expressions on their faces.

"We'll cross that bridge _if_ we come to it."

Mick was struck by the decisive note in Sam's voice – confident and certain, as if there was no question that the final decision would be his. And to his surprise, Mick noticed that Dean seemed to operate under the same assumption, expressing his concerns but not making any real argument against Sam's plan. Sam squeezed Mick's shoulder slightly, and Mick looked up to meet his eyes, questioning. Sam gave him a reassuring smile as he continued.

"In the meantime – you'll know you're safe. Half the time you'll be here, and nothing bad is going to happen to you here. And the rest of the time, Ketch knows better than to hurt you. His superiors want me and Dean, right?"

Mick nodded.

"Well, Ketch knows he'll lose us both if he touches you, or if anyone else does. So – you're safe."

Mick wasn't so sure that it was quite as simple as that. He knew Ketch a bit better than Sam did, and knew that he would at the very least attempt to find a way to get around the deal, to exert his control over Mick in some creative, awful way. But – at the very least, his control was now limited. Ketch couldn't do anything to him that would leave a mark that Sam might find, couldn't give him any actual physical injury without risking the Winchesters walking, and therefore the wrath of the Old Men coming down on his own head.

So, Sam was right, to a point. Mick was certainly far safer now than he'd been twenty-four hours earlier.

And that was because of Sam.

"Thank you," Mick said again, this time looking at Sam when he spoke. "Anything I can do, while I'm here – research, or – help with hunting, though Lord knows I'm no good at it, not yet, but – I want to learn. I want to help." Sam was looking at him with an encouraging smile, so Mick offered a weak one in response, shrugging slightly and attempting to lighten the mood as he pointed out, "Yours, bought and paid for, aren't I? Least I can do is be useful."

Sam's smile faltered, his hand falling from Mick's shoulder, and Dean looked properly horrified. Mick looked away, suddenly feeling too hot, incredibly self-conscious in the wake of his ill-advised little joke. But Sam quickly raised his hand again to touch Mick's arm, his voice determinedly upbeat as he replied with encouraging confidence.

"You will be, I know. You're going to be… a great addition to the team."

Mick nodded, relieved – because while they didn't seem like all that impressive a team, the wayward Winchesters and their willful angel, they'd accomplished many things that the critical Men of Letters couldn't explain away. And if their "team" could help him escape Ketch's control, help him regain some part of himself that had been stripped away in the past few months, then Mick was grateful to be a part of it.

"Gotta say, this is all… pretty impressive."

Mick glanced up from the files he was organizing as Dean, Sam, and Ketch reentered the war room, just concluding a tour similar to the one Sam had received alone, months ago. Dean's tone was one of grudging surprise and respect, and Mick was fairly impressed himself with the way the elder Winchester kept any trace of the contempt he clearly felt for the British Men of Letters from showing in his voice.

It seemed that Dean Winchester was a fairly accomplished liar.

"As you can see, we've quite a lot to offer you in the way of support," Ketch pointed out as the three men sat down at the conference table to talk. "And we're asking for very little in return."

"Yeah." Sam glanced in Mick's direction, meeting his eyes for just a moment before eyeing him slowly up and down. "It's a pretty sweet deal." He focused his attention back on Dean and Ketch, grinning. "If you'll excuse me for just a minute…" Sam started across the room to where Mick was working.

"It's not your turn, Sam," Ketch reminded him, a light warning in his voice.

Sam held up a dismissive hand over his shoulder, not stopping or turning around. "Five minutes."

Mick glanced uneasily past Sam to Ketch, but Ketch looked amused more than annoyed, and as he watched, Ketch leaned in to say something quietly to Dean. Dean laughed, though it seemed a little uneasy, a little forced. And then Sam reached Mick, blocking his view of the rest of the room, blocking everything else out but his presence.

Mick's heart raced at the close contact. He knew Sam had a part to play, but he still shivered as Sam's strong hands pressed him up against the wall and held him there effortlessly. He barely managed to suppress a flinch when Sam raised a hand to touch his face, but Sam's eyes were warm and reassuring as he leaned in and whispered, "Wanted to see if he'd stop me. He won't. He wants us onboard too bad – which is good."

Mick looked up at Sam as Sam drew back to meet his eyes, feeling sick, unable to keep the tremor from his whispered words. "Please don't make him angry. You're – you're leaving, and…"

"He can't touch you," Sam reminded him, hushed and certain. As he spoke he grabbed Mick's uninjured wrist and pressed it against the wall over his head. Mick winced, deliberately letting out a soft, distressed sound. Sam leaned in close again to speak next to Mick's ear. "You're doing great, Mick. Trust me, it's all gonna be okay. We're going to work this case and be back for you in a few hours."

"Okay," Mick replied, deliberately pitching his voice higher than normal, his tone desperate and frightened. Despite his act, however, Mick found Sam's words reassuring, his anxiety eased somewhat by the approval and admiration in Sam's words. "Okay, _please_ …"

When Sam met his eyes again, there was sympathy and understanding in his gaze. "I promise," he whispered, releasing Mick's wrist and backing up a step. As he did, he trailed a teasing hand down Mick's side, putting a cruel, suggestive smirk on his lips as he turned back toward the other two men. It was for Ketch's benefit. Mick knew it was. Still, he didn't have to fake the shiver that ran through him in response to the slow, intimate touch.

Mick returned to his filing, keeping his eyes on his work except for the occasional surreptitious glance, while trying to catch as much as possible of the conversation across the room. Ketch was speaking, his voice pitched low, as Sam reached them.

"So, Dean… you're aware of the details of our arrangement, then?"

Dean sighed. "Yeah."

Ketch raised an eyebrow. "And you're all right with that?"

Sam just stood there in silence, a curious, amused expression on his face as he watched his brother and waited for him to speak.

Dean hesitated a moment before responding with quiet resignation. "Let's just say it… beats the alternative." He glanced up at Ketch before admitting quietly, "Sam's got his… demons." He allowed himself a small smile at the dark irony. "Sometimes they need an outlet."

Ketch nodded slowly with a knowing smile. "Don't we all," he remarked. "Perhaps not all in quite the same way, but – that's why you need this work, Dean, as much as I do."

Dean's voice was low and dark as he admitted, "You're not wrong."

Ketch smiled. "I believe that, given time, you'll find this a _very_ good fit."

"One thing, though." Sam spoke up at last, his words barely audible to Mick, straining to hear them. "We didn't discuss the other night, but – no one else can know about our arrangement. Dean knows, and you, but – no one else. Not any other hunters you sign on, not your staff. And especially not our mom."

Ketch scoffed. "Well, of course not, obviously. If either of you were to tell anyone else, I'd be forced to dissolve our arrangement immediately. You needn't worry about your privacy in this matter, Sam. It's something that's of utmost importance to _me_ , as well."

Sam glanced at Mick, just a fraction of a second, but Mick knew what Sam was thinking. Ketch had just confirmed their suspicions – his authorities had no idea of his illicit activities, and he was worried about what might happen if they found out.

Ketch picked up a file from the table and steered the conversation toward the case inside it – his first assignment to the Winchester brothers in their new role as British-affiliated American hunters. Mick felt a tightening in his chest, his mouth going a little dry at the thought that within a few minutes, they'd be leaving him here to go and work the case – leaving him here, alone with Ketch.

As they rose to leave, Mick caught the uneasy glance Sam gave him, and realized that for all his reassurances, as hard as he'd tried to make Mick feel safe, Sam wasn't any more comfortable leaving Mick here than Mick was being left. Ketch caught the look, too, but he just laughed.

"Don't look so glum, Sam," he teased. "It's a local case, most likely a simple haunting. You should be finished well within the allotted twelve hours and back to claim your prize for another night."

Sam favored Ketch with a terse, forced smile, as if irritated with Ketch's ribbing, but his eyes were worried. Mick was beginning to wish that he'd just go, quickly, before Ketch had a chance to catch onto any inconsistencies in Sam's behavior. And Sam did, heading toward the Impala with Dean without giving Mick another glance.

Mick focused his attention on the files in front of him as the room went silent, Ketch watching the Winchesters go. But he was acutely aware of the sound of Ketch's footsteps, steady and even as he walked to the edge of the office that had once been Mick's, and leaned against the wall, watching Mick work for a few moments.

"God, Mick, are you _really_ going to just stand there filing all day?" he sighed at last, rolling his eyes.

Mick stopped, looking up at him uncertainly. He managed with an effort to keep his voice steady and low as he replied. "What – what would you have me do?"

"Well, don't just keep me here in suspense, love." Ketch's tone was teasing, but his eyes were hard, shining with cruel amusement, and Mick knew it was not a request when he concluded, softly taunting, "After the day and two nights you've spent together… I want to hear _all about_ your good and honorable Mr. Winchester."


	6. Chapter 6

"Well?" Ketch's tone held a note of conspiratorial impatience, as if he was waiting for some bit of juicy gossip. "How was it?" His pace was relaxed, casual, as he moved toward Mick, and Mick tried to keep his hands from trembling as he continued putting files into the drawer from the stack on top the cabinet. "How was _he_?"

Mick looked up at Ketch for a moment, aghast at the question, both appalling and impossible to answer. He swiftly looked away before Ketch could read the disgust on his face, and kept silent.

"What, why so secretive?" Ketch persisted, stopping just a couple of feet away, close enough that Mick was closed in by the open file drawer on one side, and the office wall on the other. Mick tried not to react as Ketch lowered his head, slowly closing the remaining distance between them. When Mick finally, reluctantly raised his eyes to meet Ketch's gaze, Ketch smiled, teasing.

"Was he better than me?"

Mick went still, unable to respond. Either answer came with its own consequences, and Ketch knew it. There was no space left between them, yet Ketch took another step, forcing Mick back against the wall. He reached out a hand to brush through Mick's hair, intimately coaxing, a soft, cruel smile on his lips when Mick flinched.

" _Worse_ than me?" he suggested, hushed, speculative. "Have we actually found the one person in the world whose company you enjoy _less_ than mine?"

Mick was certain that such a person did not exist – but he didn't inform Ketch of that. He closed his eyes, swallowed slowly, trying to gather his thoughts – and decided to use Ketch's assumptions to his advantage, to further cement Sam's plan into place.

"Please," he said softly, allowing the fear he felt to show in his voice as he looked up at Ketch. "Please don't – don't make me go back there."

Ketch laughed softly, eyebrows raised with surprise. "That bad," he acknowledged. "Well. Seems you were very, very wrong about Mr. Winchester, weren't you?"

" _Yes_ ," Mick admitted, lowering his head in defeat. "Please, just – I'll do whatever you want, just – don't send me back to him again." He looked up at Ketch, putting a note of desperate defiance in his voice. "I'm still a Man of Letters. You don't have the right to just – _give_ me to…"

Ketch's hand in Mick's hair abruptly grasped a handful and yanked his head back, and Mick's words broke off in a stifled little cry.

Ketch's voice was still perfectly calm, though his eyes were hard, his mouth a tight, angry line as he said softly, "I have the _right_ to do as I will with you."

"Yes… okay…" Mick held up his hands between them, capitulating easily.

Ketch was reacting exactly as he'd expected.

"You _will_ go back to Sam Winchester – tonight and every single night he comes for you," Ketch declared, releasing his grip on Mick's hair and shifting back a little. "And you will keep him happy, please him in whatever way he desires… and all the while you'll be taking every opportunity to gather as much information as you can on him and his brother and their activities, and bringing it all back here to me."

Mick stared at Ketch, alarm rising with him as he processed the instructions. "You – you want me to spy on them?"

"God, you're thick," Ketch snapped, impatient. " _Yes_ , I want you to spy on them. I want you to find out whatever you can and report back to me each day."

Mick's heart sank. Of course this was what Ketch wanted, probably his primary reason for agreeing to Sam's conditions on the deal – to get Mick into the Winchesters' bunker and gain access to whatever secrets they might have. Whatever he found, Mick had no doubt that Ketch could take it and twist it and use it to destroy the Winchesters if he wanted to. And Mick didn't want that to happen – not to Sam, not when he was trying so hard to help him.

"I thought – I thought the old men wanted the Winchesters on board." Mick kept his words cautious and quiet. "If they catch me spying on them, they'll be _done_ with us. We'll lose them completely. That can't be worth the risk for a bit of intel that probably amounts to nothing, anyway…"

Ketch abruptly shoved him back against the wall, raising his hand, and Mick flinched violently as Ketch's fist slammed against the wall an inch from his face. He couldn't hold back a gasp, his heart thundering at the near miss. Ketch closed his eyes for a moment, visibly restraining his anger, before bringing both hands to rest at Mick's waist, holding him in place as he drew in a deep breath and let it out in a frustrated huff. When he opened his eyes, he was smiling again. He brushed the back of one hand gently across Mick's cheek, his words quiet and controlled.

"Then I suppose you'll have to be careful, won't you, love?"

Mick stared at him for a long moment, fear fading into dawning realization. He'd seen it, there wasn't any question – Ketch wanted to hit him. He'd raised his fist to strike – and any other time, he would have. He'd have backhanded him for daring to talk back, to argue with Ketch's decisions – would have left him bruised and bleeding, reminded for days of the consequences of his defiance. As he said, he could do with Mick what he wanted, and he _did_. But this time, Ketch had stopped himself. This time, he couldn't afford to leave any such evidence on Mick's face.

Sam's plan was working; Ketch _couldn't_ hurt him.

Mick smiled slowly, holding the larger man's gaze, and Ketch's false patience faded into a suspicious frown. When Mick finally spoke, his voice was quiet but knowing.

"So will you."

Ketch blinked, visibly startled by the quiet challenge. Then he smiled, seemingly impressed. "Because of Sam, you mean," he said. "Because of his desire not to see any marks on your body besides his own." He put up both hands in a gesture of surrender, taking a step back. "You're right, of course. Wouldn't want to give him any reason to end our arrangement."

He turned away, and Mick felt a rush of relief and satisfaction. It was actually working. Ketch cared more about keeping the Winchesters than he did about his rights to his favourite toy. He was going to be left alone, unharmed, for the first time in months.

And then, Ketch stopped.

He slowly turned to face Mick again, a light of cruel amusement in his eyes that turned Mick's blood to ice.

"Of course… he has no reason to end our arrangement if he doesn't know. Does he?"

Ketch moved toward Mick again, unhurried, predatory. Mick's mouth went dry, his palms damp, heart racing. He could see his grave mistake now, knew where this was leading, but there was no way to take back his rash, challenging words. Ketch placed one hand against the wall beside Mick, leaving him no escape.

"If I touch you… _here_ …" His other hand darted out to grasp the spot low on Mick's side, just below his ribs where Ketch had kicked him two days earlier. Mick gasped at the painful pressure on the deep purple bruise covered by his shirt, but managed to hold Ketch's gaze. "Or here…" Ketch smiled, raising his hand to rest lightly over the handprint bruise on Mick's neck, his thumb pressing just slightly into the hollow of Mick's throat. Mick didn't try to pull away, did his best not to give Ketch the satisfaction of his reaction. "Or perhaps _here_ …" Ketch's hand shot out to grasp his hurt wrist, holding it loosely against the wall. Mick did flinch then, dread settling in the pit of his stomach, and Ketch smiled against his ear. " _Yes_ ," his whispered. "It seems I've left _my_ mark… _all over you_ , haven't I?"

Mick swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of Ketch's favourite threat – but his wrist already constantly ached from Ketch's abuse, and the thought of the added pain he could inflict with just the slightest twist of his hand made Mick feel sick to his stomach. He could feel his courage dissipating, and he closed his eyes, his jaw set with determination.

He reminded himself – surrender would not lead to mercy. Ketch had none.

"If I'm _careful,_ as you so helpfully suggested," Ketch continued, hushed and secretive, his thumb rubbing gently back and forth against the side of Mick's wrist. "Then how would Sam ever know?"

Mick swallowed hard. "He wouldn't," he admitted, his voice hoarse and thick.

" _You_ certainly aren't going to say a word, are you, love?"

Mick closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. "No," he whispered. "No, I won't." He bit back a choked little sound as Ketch tightened his hand around Mick's wrist, and the word had escaped his lips before he could stop it, quietly desperate. " _Please_..."

Ketch smiled his satisfaction against Mick's cheek, a low, cruel laugh in his throat, and kissed his temple before raising his free hand and turning Mick's face to meet his eyes.

" _Too late,"_ he whispered.

Mick's hopes sank as Ketch abruptly let go of him and took a step back. He knew better than to think it was any sort of reprieve. Why had he believed for even a moment that Sam's plan could work, that Ketch would actually keep his word and his hands to himself, just because Sam asked for it? Perhaps he might have, if Mick hadn't challenged him, hadn't poked at his own flimsy semblance of protection until it came tumbling down around him.

He knew better. He _always_ knew better, and yet he kept bringing this punishment down upon his own head with his foolish, futile resistance.

Mick kept silent, his shoulders low, his eyes on the floor in front of him, trying to appear humbled, contrite, as if he'd learned his lesson.

Ketch was less than convinced.

Ketch sounded almost bored, studying his own nails as he sighed, "It seems you need reminding of your place in all of this."

"I don't," Mick whispered, desperate, shaking his head. "Please, I-I _know_ my place, I'm sorry…"

"Do you?" Ketch cut him off, cold, sharp eyes locking onto Mick as he commanded quietly, "Show me."

Mick knew what Ketch wanted of him. He'd required it many times in the past few months. At first, Mick had resisted, but he'd eventually reached the point where he gave it over, full submission without hesitation.

Mick didn't want to give it over. Not this time.

He wanted to _fight_ , wanted to nurture that spark of defiance that Sam Winchester had spent the previous evening fanning into a small flame.

But Mick could see the cold warning in Ketch's eyes, knew him well enough by now to know that he wouldn't tolerate such an insult without retaliation – whatever the cost. He'd do whatever it took to bring Mick into submission, arrangement with the Winchesters be damned – and then he'd report Mick's insubordination to the Council of Elders and lay the blame for the failure on him.

It didn't matter how badly Mick wanted to fight. If he fought – he'd lose. He knew, because – he always had.

Mick forced himself to step away from the wall and slid to his knees at Ketch's feet, head bowed, his good hand wrapped protectively around his aching wrist. He braced himself as Ketch reached a hand down toward his head; but Ketch did nothing more than gently stroke his hair.

"Oh, good. Then you _do_ remember how to obey." His tone was deceptively gentle, as Ketch crouched down so that he could meet Mick's eyes with a cruel smile. The smile abruptly vanished, his eyes hard as he held out his left arm, palm up. "Place your hand on the floor. Like this."

Mick couldn't move, couldn't breathe, his chest clenched in an icy fist, his mind refusing to process the command, and its horrifying implications. Ketch's mouth tightened with impatience, his words measured and soft, his fingers still gentle and falsely soothing as they stroked through Mick's hair.

"If I have to make you… it will be worse."

As terrified as he was to obey Ketch's command – he was even more afraid to disobey it. Mick leaned forward a little and laid his injured wrist out against the cold tile at Ketch's feet. He shivered as Ketch stood up again, just barely nudging Mick's wrist with the toe of his heavy boot. Mick flinched, but didn't dare pull away.

"Please," he managed to choke out, his chest seized up with panic. "Please don't…"

Ketch responded by placing the toe of his boot across Mick's wrist – just barely enough pressure to hold him in place, not really enough to cause more than a twinge of pain. His voice was hard, pitiless, as he demanded, "Did I _tell_ you to speak?"

Mick shook his head, biting down on his lip until he tasted blood to keep the desperate, panicked words from pouring out. Ketch crouched down beside him again, the shift in his weight putting more pressure on Mick's wrist for a moment before he rebalanced, and Mick stifled a cry of pain as Ketch grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, forcing him to face him.

"Let's have one thing perfectly clear between us, shall we?"

Ketch's voice was soft, but razor sharp, cutting through Mick's panic with the certainty that he _had_ to listen, he had to get this _right_ , because the consequences of failure were too terrifying to contemplate. Ketch yanked Mick closer to him, his expression cold and angry.

"You may be on loan to Sam Winchester at the moment, Mick… but _I_ own you. _I_ do. And regardless of Sam's presumptuous conditions on our arrangement, I can and _will_ do anything I want to you, anytime I want. Is that understood?"

Mick nodded frantically. "Yes," he whispered, breathless but too afraid not to answer. Every shred of courage had left him, and all he could do was his best to appease his master. "Yes, it is…"

"You will go back to the Winchesters' bunker when Sam comes for you tonight," Ketch stated, no room for argument in his sharp tone. "You will please Sam Winchester in whatever way he desires… and when he goes to sleep, you will search that bunker for any trace of what they might be currently working on… any secrets they might be keeping… you will remember each and every conversation they have in your presence, or even proximity. And you will report everything back to me. Won't you?" As he spoke, Ketch's voice became more clipped and pointed, and his foot pressed down harder and harder, in slight but agonizing increments, on Mick's damaged wrist.

" _Yes_ …" Mick nodded again, shutting his eyes to press back tears that made their way down his face anyway, his words a choked, desperate sob. "Yes, _please_ …"

Ketch was quiet for a moment, and then Mick felt the pressure ease as he moved his foot away. Ketch moved from his crouched position onto his own knees beside Mick. He slid a gentle arm around Mick's shoulders, kissed the tears from Mick's cheek, leaning in to whisper, low and intimate against his ear, "Did you _really_ think you'd ever be safe from me?"

Mick lowered his head, eyes closed, shaking his head slowly. No. He hadn't, not really.

Ketch smiled against his skin, and Mick froze when he felt Ketch's fingertips edging along the side of his arm, teasing the already screaming nerves in his wrist.

"Don't _ever_ presume to tell me what I can't do to you," Ketch advised softly, drawing back to meet his eyes with a smile that mingled cruelty and affection. "Tell me I can't… and I will."

Despite the threatening words, Ketch took his hand away without inflicting any more pain, and rose to his feet. Mick remained rigid, shaking, as Ketch turned and walked away from him, until he was sure he wouldn't be coming back – then collapsed with relief. But as he considered his new orders, and the consequences attached to both failure and success, Mick's heart was consumed with dread.

Sam's plan now felt far too dangerous and uncertain. Ketch was very perceptive, very cunning, and if he figured it out – the consequences were too horrible to contemplate. And if Mick failed to bring Ketch useful information on the Winchesters, he knew there'd be severe consequences for _that_ failure as well. But if Sam caught him attempting to pass information to Ketch, Mick was certain that his promises of protection would mean nothing at that point. Sam would surely retaliate if faced with such a betrayal.

Mick rose unsteadily to his feet, left his filing unfinished, and went to the tiny room at the end of the sleeping quarters to which he'd been relegated.

It was little more than a large closet, with a narrow, thin mattress on the floor, and a small freestanding wardrobe in which to keep his things. The door locked from the outside, not the inside, ensuring that it could not provide him an escape from Ketch unless Ketch allowed it, and that it _could_ be used to keep him out of Ketch's way when Ketch didn't want him around. But for the moment it was quiet and private, and somewhere Mick could go to collect his thoughts, to prepare for what he was going to have to do.

If he could only somehow figure out what that was.

The Impala was notably silent as Dean drove them away from the Brits' headquarters that night, after reporting back to Ketch and picking up Mick. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror, worried. Mick was very quiet, staring out the window with tired, troubled eyes. Sam supposed it was to be expected. The act they had to keep up at the moment was exhausting for _him_ , and he only had to carry it off for minutes at a time.

Mick had been alone with Ketch, all day.

Sam took comfort in the fact that he didn't look any different than when Sam had left – no visible injuries or bruises, and he wasn't moving any differently – so apparently Ketch was keeping his end of the bargain.

But he knew that appearances could be deceiving.

"You okay back there?" he asked, keeping his tone as light as he could manage, catching Mick's gaze in the rearview mirror and offering a sympathetic smile.

Mick nodded, returning Sam's smile, before looking back out the window.

Dean didn't say anything, just stared out the windshield, visibly uncomfortable, and Sam figured it'd be better to try again to talk to Mick when they were alone. Sam was pretty sure Mick was still at least a little bit scared of him, and Dean was pretty intimidating without even trying.

When they reached the bunker, Cas's truck was parked in the garage. Mick followed Sam and Dean up into the bunker, the small duffel bag he'd brought slung over his shoulder. Once they were inside, Dean headed off to find Cas. Mick looked with mild interest at the books and papers Sam had spread out all over the library table, until Sam put a hand on Mick's shoulder to get his attention. Mick flinched a little, but instantly covered, turning toward Sam with a smile that was a little too bright.

"Yes?"

Sam didn't acknowledge his flinch, deciding that the best way for Mick to get back to normal was to experience as much of it as possible. "Come on." Sam nodded toward the hall, then led the way, expecting Mick to follow.

He opened a door near the end of the hall, then stepped back, allowing Mick to enter ahead of him.

"It's not as fancy as you're probably used to." Sam shrugged. "You know, back at Hunters Hogwarts and all. But it's yours, as long as you're here."

Mick was quiet, taking in the spare walls and simple furnishings, and Sam wondered what he was thinking. There was a dresser against one wall, a desk in the corner, and a large bed that took up half the room. Three folded towels were stacked on the neatly made bed. Mick glanced at the door, his gaze dropping as he ran his hand across the knob, one finger idly turning the lock back and forth a time or two. He set down his bag at his feet, and looked up at Sam with a smile that was softer, more genuine.

"It's perfect, Sam. Thank you."

"Hey, I need my room back," Sam teased, bumping Mick's shoulder with his own as he headed back out into the hall. "Showed you around yesterday, so – kitchen's open, help yourself if you want something to eat, or a beer, or whatever. Showers are down the hall. I'm gonna grab one myself, and then I'll be in the library studying for a while. So – you can get some rest, or come and hang out, or whatever."

Mick frowned, uncertain. "You're sure you don't need any help with anything, Sam? As long as I'm here, I don't want to just be dead weight. I mean, why am I here, if I'm just going to…"

"Mick – _stop_ ," Sam insisted, turning back to face Mick again. "I'm sure your day had to massively suck. This whole thing we're doing – it's exhausting, and stressful, and…" Sam shook his head, then met Mick's eyes and stated firmly, "You're here… so that you're not _there_. All right? That's it. You don't have to do anything but – get some rest, because I'm pretty sure you probably haven't had any in a while."

Mick stared up at him, his expression doubtful and troubled.

" _Get some rest_ ," Sam repeated firmly.

Mick reluctantly nodded, and Sam left him to settle in.

After a long, hot shower, Sam returned to the library dressed in a soft pair of gray pajama pants and an old t-shirt, his hair still damp, feeling tremendously more relaxed and comfortable. He stopped in the library doorway, surprised to see Mick standing by the table, turning a page in one of Sam's books that lay open in front of him, lost in concentration.

"Hey."

Mick jumped, spinning around to face Sam, looking trapped and guilty. Sam laughed a little, holding up a hand.

"Easy," he said, quiet. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"I tried lying down for a bit," Mick offered, a slight defensive edge to his words. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come find you and try again to offer a hand, but…"

"It's okay," Sam insisted, walking into the library and sitting down in the chair beside Mick. "Seriously, you can be in here. You're not in trouble." Sam's tone was light, teasing, but his smile faded at the genuine worry in Mick's eyes, a reminder that Mick had very recent, very real reason to fear. Sam hesitated a moment, considering – and then decided that if he was going to ask for this much trust, he might have to offer a bit in return. Dean would kill him for this, he knew it, but his decision was made.

"Here, take a look at this. I'll show you what I've been working on."

Mick stayed mostly quiet, though his eyes grew wide and troubled as Sam explained about Lucifer, and the President, and the soon to be baby that might have the power to end the world.

"We don't know where Kelly is right now," Sam admitted. "She gave Cas the slip, but – we're looking for her, and we're looking for a way to prevent Apocalypse, like, 7.0 by now or something." Sam sighed, raking his hand back through his damp hair. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"I – don't understand what's to figure out," Mick said, quiet and careful, looking up at Sam with wary eyes. "You had her – and you left her alive?"

Sam frowned, disturbed by Mick's reaction. "Well, yeah. She's an innocent, _pregnant_ woman. Last I checked, we don't kill those." He paused. "She didn't choose what happened to her. Lucifer dragged her into this against her will."

"I understand that, and it's awful," Mick conceded. "But – the fate of the _world_ , Sam…"

Sam's jaw set, stubborn, and he turned back toward his work. "We'll find another way."

Mick was quiet then, though Sam knew he didn't agree. It was just another reminder of how much he'd changed; the Mick Sam had met the night the Alpha Vampire died would have argued a bit more forcefully about a matter of this importance. Mick did speak up, after a long moment of silence, but his words caught Sam by surprise.

"I was right, about you."

Sam looked up at Mick, uncertain. "What?"

Mick met his eyes, his expression inscrutable, his voice very soft, a little sad. "You _are_ an honourable man. I told Ketch…" He stopped abruptly, looking away, swallowing. "I knew you'd never… accept his offer. Any more than you could kill this innocent girl – even if you probably should." He paused a moment, before remarking, "He'd do it without blinking."

The warmth Sam felt at Mick's unexpected observations about him drained away, and he felt a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. "That's why you can't tell him about this, all right?" he said, turning back toward Mick, urgency in his voice. "He can't know. There's no reason for him to know. _We're_ gonna fix this. Okay?"

Mick nodded, but his eyes were averted, staring down at the table. "Okay," he echoed, unconvincing.

" _Hey_." Sam's voice was sharper, and he felt a little guilty when Mick's eyes darted up to his, immediately attentive – but this was important. "Seriously, man. I mean it."

"I know." Mick's voice was quiet and solemn.

But he looked a little shaky, a little sick. He couldn't seem to hold Sam's gaze for long without looking away, rubbing at his wrist. Sam frowned. The bandage looked dirty and ragged, and Mick was touching it very carefully, as if it was currently causing him pain.

"Hey, let me see."

Mick looked up at him then, startled. "What?"

"Come here." Sam nodded toward Mick's wrist. "Let me see."

Mick froze for a moment, staring up at Sam. Then he swallowed hard and took a step closer, obediently holding out his wrist while supporting the injured limb with his other hand. Sam carefully brought his own hand up under it, cradling it as he carefully began to unwind the bandage. Sam noticed that Mick's breathing was shallow and a little fast, and his arm was trembling where Sam touched it. If he was in severe pain, Sam knew he had to be worried that Sam might accidentally hurt him.

Sam stroked his thumb lightly against Mick's arm, a soft, shushing sound escaping his lips. Instead of seeming soothed by Sam's attempts, Mick winced, and Sam realized belatedly that he was responding as he might to a skittish dog.

"It's okay," he said softly. "I just wanna look."

Mick nodded. "Okay," he whispered, the word barely more than a breath as he watched Sam closely.

"Just so you know," Sam said quietly as he unwound the bandage, "You're free to go anywhere in this bunker you want to go, besides Dean's room, or Cas's room, or mine if I'm not there. You can access anything in this library you want to." He set aside the tattered, dirty bandage and gently slid his hand down the length of Mick's arm, feeling for obvious injuries. "But you cannot pass any information back to Ketch. I know it's tough. He's the head of the British presence here in the States right now, and I know you feel like you have to be loyal to them. I get that. But _he_ is the enemy. So he gets nothing. Right?"

"Right," Mick agreed, hurried, breathless, his wide, worried gaze focused on Sam's hands as they carefully manipulated his hand, wrist, and arm, assessing the damage.

Mick's wrist was a mess of bruises in various stages of healing, a little swollen, but still more or less wrist-shaped, no indentations or protruding bones. Sam looked up to watch Mick's face as he very carefully moved his wrist, first one direction and then the other, just a little. Mick winced a little, but didn't make a sound, and Sam knew that was a good sign.

"Doesn't seem to be broken," he observed, then amended with a rueful smile. "Doesn't have to be to hurt like hell, though."

Mick didn't answer for a moment. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, before a single word escaped his lips, and made Sam's heart drop.

" _Please_ …"

Sam went still, studying Mick's face intently. "Please, what?" he asked, careful and quiet. "Mick…"

"I won't say anything," Mick whispered, his voice breaking over the breathless words, his head bowed in submission. "Sam, I swear, I won't tell Ketch anything, I understand, just… _don't._.."

Abruptly, the full force of clarity hit, and Sam understood. He felt sick as he reconsidered his actions through Mick's eyes, the timing of them, the way he'd handled Mick's injured wrist while simultaneously demanding his silence. The way Mick protected the injury all the time, and the condition it was in, made it obvious – Ketch had _repeatedly_ focused his attention on this particular point of weakness, most likely to emphasize a point, to ensure Mick's obedience...

And Mick had thought that Sam was doing the same thing.

Now Sam thought _he_ might be sick.

"Mick… no. _No_."

Sam kept his voice firm, but gentle, letting go of Mick's wrist, feeling an ache of sympathy and regret when Mick immediately cradled it against his chest with his good hand. Instead, Sam took hold of Mick's uninjured arm and gently steered him into the seat next to Sam's, silently urging him to sit down.

Mick complied – of course he did – and Sam put his hands on the arms of the chair, trying to focus Mick's attention without actually touching him.

"Mick… please look at me, okay?"

Mick obeyed, his blue-gray eyes wet and frightened. His breath was too quick, uneven, and Sam knew he was on the verge of panic. Sam held his gaze, intent on keeping his attention.

"Did I hurt you, your wrist, just now?"

Mick bit his lip, shook his head a little. "Not – not much," he said softly.

"I didn't mean to," Sam said softly, one hand moving from the arm of the chair to rest on Mick's knee, desperate to somehow make contact and convey his good intentions, without further frightening him. "I swear I didn't. I wasn't trying to hurt you, or – or threaten you. I just noticed that your wrist was bothering you, and I haven't had the chance to look it over yet and see how bad it is, and I – I just wanted to help. Okay? That's all. I promise."

Mick took that in, uncertainty in his eyes. "I – I thought… because, you said…"

"I know, my timing sucks," Sam sighed. "But I only wanted to help you. I swear. Mick…" Sam considered his words carefully before explaining, "I did mean what I said. I _don't_ want you to tell Ketch about the nephilim. I don't want you to tell him anything. Hell, I don't want you to ever have to be in the same fucking _room_ with him again. But – if you did tell him, I wouldn't hurt you. This whole thing is about _keeping_ you from getting hurt." He winced at his own next words, because he wished they didn't have to be said, but they clearly did. "The other night, when he brought you here – that was just an act, Mick."

Mick nodded, swallowing hard. "I know…"

"It was _just an act_ ," Sam persisted, because clearly Mick _didn't_ know, not really. "I swear to you, I am _not_ that guy."

Mick stared at him for a long moment, barely even breathing – and then let out a long, shuddering breath, his face falling into his good hand as relief overwhelmed him. A moment later, he spat out words filled with such bitter disgust that _Sam_ was the one who flinched.

"God, I am such a _bloody idiot_."

"No," Sam argued softly, reaching out a cautious arm to rest across Mick's back. "No, you're not." He was quiet for a moment. "It's what Ketch has been doing, isn't it? Using it to threaten you? "

Mick kept his head down, shrugged a little. "Sometimes," he admitted softly.

"Well, that's because he's a sick bastard." Sam felt Mick flinch a little under his arm, and softened his tone, forcing his anger back down; Mick didn't need to hear it right now. "I'm _not him_ ," he stated firmly. "I wouldn't do that to you. I know – I know you don't really know me yet. I know asking you to trust me is asking for a lot right now, but – if you can _try_ …"

Mick nodded slowly, his gaze focused on his own knees.

"I'm trusting you, right?" Sam pointed out with a rueful smile. "So… goes both ways, man."

Mick closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed hard, and nodded again. "Right," he replied, a little distant.

"So… give me a minute, okay?" Sam suggested, standing up. "I'm gonna go get the first aid kit, and I'm gonna take care of that wrist. All right?"

"Sam…" Mick looked up at Sam at last, confusion and uncertainty in his eyes. His lips parted as if to speak further, but he hesitated, then looked away. "Nothing, just… thank you."

Sam frowned a little; he was almost certain that wasn't what Mick had intended to say. But he kept his tone light, replying, "No problem, man," and heading for the infirmary, leaving Mick to gather his composure, alone with his thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

Mick watched as Sam disappeared down the hallway toward the infirmary. Once Sam was gone, he let out a slow, unsteady breath, raking one trembling hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts and regain his composure.

For a moment there, Mick had been so sure that Sam was onto him – that he somehow knew that Ketch had ordered him to spy on the Winchesters, and that he was going to make bloody well sure that Mick didn't carry out those orders. Sam had handled his injured wrist carefully, with gentle hands that had made every effort not to hurt him – but Mick knew well enough by now that sometimes the promise of pain could be as paralyzing as the pain itself.

He wanted so desperately to believe Sam's assurances, to trust that he would do as he said, that he _could_ do as he said and protect him from Ketch. But his wrist still throbbed from Ketch's latest attack; and despite Sam's kindness, Mick had little doubt that if Sam knew what Mick was keeping from him, that gentleness would turn to violent retaliation in an instant – and he would deserve it.

 _At the very least, Sam would end the arrangement and send you back to Ketch. He certainly wouldn't concern himself with the protection and wellbeing of a treacherous little spy like you..._

"I think I've got everything we need."

Mick looked up at the sound of Sam's voice in the doorway. He was holding up a first aid kit, a warm smile on his lips as he approached. Mick forced himself to return Sam's smile, though he was sure it wasn't even close to convincing.

"We should probably take this somewhere else, though," Sam suggested. "Somewhere with running water, and – a little more privacy, maybe."

Mick frowned, glancing down at his wrist in confusion. He didn't see why either of those things would be necessary to change a bandage. Unless – Sam had more than that in mind. Mick drew in a slow breath, trying not to let his apprehension show, as Sam closed the remaining distance between them and sat down facing him. Mick made himself look up and meet Sam's warm, somewhat apologetic eyes.

"I don't just want to look at your wrist," Sam admitted. "I – I know you've been through a lot lately, and – I just want to see if there are any other serious injuries that need attention. And – I thought maybe you'd prefer a little more privacy for that." Sam paused a moment before offering, "Unless you don't. Unless you feel better out in the open, like this. But Dean or Cas could come through at any time, and I just – I guess I just want to give you the option, you know?"

Mick nodded, considering Sam's words. There was a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, a hot rush of shame as he thought of his body, exposed to Sam's eyes – and the dozens of marks that covered it, evidence of his weakness, evidence of his _failure_. The idea of going off to Sam's bedroom to take off his clothes and allow Sam to examine him made him feel sick, his lingering fear whispering in the back of his mind that behind that closed bedroom door, Sam could do anything he wanted.

Of course – Sam could do that here, too.

Whatever Sam wanted or intended, it was not within Mick's power to stop him. It was best to just do what Sam said, go along with whatever he seemed to want, and hope that Sam's intentions were what he said they were.

"Right," he agreed, nodding. "Could be a bit awkward, that. We should go somewhere else."

Sam frowned, and the concern in his eyes certainly _seemed_ genuine enough. "You're sure. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Mick."

Mick nodded again, more emphatically, forcing a smile, forcing himself to hold Sam's searching gaze. "Yes, I – I'm sure."

Sam led the way down the hall to the bedrooms, but bypassed his own door, continuing on to the room he'd given Mick. Mick hesitated a moment near the doorway, biting his lip, before reluctantly stepping inside. If anything bad was going to happen, if Sam was going to change his mind and decide that he wanted to take advantage of the privacy to assert his claim over his hard-won property – Mick really didn't want it to happen _here_ , in his own space, behind the locked door he'd been so grateful to receive.

But Sam left the bedroom door standing wide open, and Mick couldn't help but take some reassurance from that. Surely if Sam meant to harm him, he wouldn't take a chance of someone happening by and witnessing it; he'd have closed and locked the door. Sam pulled the chair away from the desk against the wall, and brought it over near the bed. As he sat down in it, he patted the side of the mattress in silent instruction. Mick obeyed automatically; his mouth was dry, and he could feel his pulse racing under the pressure of his hand where it circled his wrist. He flinched a little when Sam reached out to touch his knee, though it was a very cautious, tentative touch.

"I figured you might be most comfortable here," Sam explained. "But – I want you to know that I'll leave anytime you want me to, okay? This room is _your_ space, and if – if you're not okay with anything I'm doing, I'll stop. I just want to help you, not – pressure you into anything. All right?"

Mick nodded, looking down at Sam's hand on his knee. He wanted so badly to believe that Sam was telling the truth – and with every opportunity Sam _didn't_ take to take advantage of him, it seemed more and more like he _was_. Sam squeezed his knee just slightly to get his attention, and Mick looked up.

There was an apologetic grimace on Sam's lips. "Would you – mind taking off your shirt?"

Mick swallowed hard. It wasn't as if he really had a choice. Sam could do what he wanted. "Okay," he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off, folding it and setting it aside on the mattress. His ribs ached as he lifted his arms to remove the t-shirt underneath, and he wrapped one arm around his bare stomach as he set that aside too, shivering a little, though the room wasn't cold.

Sam stood up, placing a hand on Mick's shoulder and gently turning him so that he could look at his back. Mick felt a hot rush of shame, knowing what Sam would find there – the layers of welts and bruises from the dozens of beatings Ketch had administered, most frequently with a thin, retractable baton he carried, not because he thought he might be attacked and need to use it, behind the safe walls of the Men of Letters headquarters, but just in case Mick might happen to screw up some minor task around the office, or speak to Ketch with less respect than he felt he deserved, or give him a bloody _look_ he didn't like.

 _Your own fault… if you'd just learn when to keep your mouth shut… learn to be a better hunter, a better assistant, to listen, to obey… and now Sam can see just what a useless failure you are, at everything_ _..._

Sam cursed under his breath, his hand on Mick's shoulder flexing slightly, and Mick shuddered. He could feel the anger pouring off Sam in waves, and it made him want to shrink away, made him want to hide, to become invisible. He closed his eyes, his arms wrapped tight around his torso – and then he felt Sam's hand, warm and gentle over his.

"Hey…" Sam's voice was hushed, coaxing. "Mick, look at me, okay?"

Mick opened his eyes, through the rush of his rising panic aware only that he had to _obey_. Sam was crouched in front of him, looking up into his face. His eyes were warm and sad, and his voice was soft with compassion.

"This – none of this is your fault. Okay? I'm not angry at _you_. And I'm not going to hurt you. All right?"

Mick nodded.

"If this is too much for you, we don't have to do this. I just want to make sure you're not, you know, bleeding internally or anything serious. I want to make sure you're okay. But – if it's too much…"

"I-it's not," Mick assured him, his every instinct insistent that he had to give Sam what he wanted, had to please him, no matter how badly he wanted to tell Sam to leave him alone, put his clothes back on and burrow into the warm bed beneath him. "It's fine." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Th-thank you."

Sam gently stroked the back of Mick's hand as he said, "Your back doesn't look too bad." He grimaced, amending, "I mean, it's bad, but – there aren't any open wounds or anything. But I just – I thought I saw something the other day. Can you… move your arms for a second, please? I just wanna see…"

Mick knew what Sam was talking about, and winced a little as he reluctantly lowered his arms, revealing the dark bruise at his side, just under his ribs. Sam's touch was warm and gentle as he carefully cupped the bruise, then pressed just slightly. It hurt a little, but Mick managed not to flinch away, his expression carefully calm as Sam searched his face.

"It doesn't feel hot, isn't swollen," Sam remarked. "Can you lift your arms?"

Mick obediently demonstrated that he could, though the stretch was a little painful.

"How long ago did it happen?" Sam asked.

"A few days."

Sam frowned. " _What_ happened, exactly?"

Mick swallowed, looking down at his lap with a tight, bitter smile. "He – he was knocking me about a bit, over some – some appointment I'd mixed up for him, and – I was thinking what an ignorant tosser he is. Guess I thought it a bit too loudly." He grimaced, remembering the feeling of Ketch's boot connecting with his ribcage, the breathtaking pain of it. "He kicked me."

Sam's hands stilled, and Mick's stomach lurched. He could feel Sam's anger rising again, could hear it in his voice, low and dark.

"Yeah. He's exactly the kind of bastard to _literally_ kick you when you're already down, isn't he?"

Mick looked down, his face flushed with humiliation.

 _Weak, worthless little bitch… once he realizes how pathetic you truly are, you won't have to worry about his intentions… he won't waste another moment of his time._

Sam sat down again in the chair facing Mick, and reached out to touch his hand again. Mick reluctantly looked up at Sam, who was patiently waiting for his attention before he spoke, his voice quiet and careful.

"Mick, this is – awkward, but – I need to know, so I know if you're okay. How long has it been since, um – that time with the hunter you told me about?"

 _Since Morgan…_ Mick blinked, processing Sam's question, its purpose and implications. _That time – because he thinks it was just once. And he doesn't know about Ketch. Thinks he's just beat me, not..._ He shuddered.

It had been a couple of weeks since Morgan had raped him. Ketch – that was a different matter entirely. Ketch rarely went a couple of days without cornering Mick – in his empty office, in his bedroom, in Mick's tiny prison of a bedroom – to take what he wanted and reinforce Mick's status as nothing more than his little fuck toy.

The last time had been the night before they'd gone to the bunker to make Ketch's offer to Sam, and Mick could still feel the razor sharp pain of it every time he moved at just the wrong angle.

"It was – a long time ago," he lied, forcing himself to meet Sam's eyes for at least a moment. "I-I'm not hurt… like that, right now."

"Okay." Sam let out a heavy breath of relief, nodding. "Good. Anything else I should know about? I don't want you to have to undress any more if it's not necessary…"

Mick swallowed hard, shaking his head, his eyes downcast.

"Just – more of the same on my legs," he lied, gesturing vaguely toward his back. "That's all."

"Mick," Sam said softly, gently squeezing his hand, and Mick made himself look up. "This is _not_ your fault. And it will _never_ happen to you again. All right?"

Mick nodded, wishing he could believe that it was true. After all, Sam's conditions on the deal had been intended to prevent Ketch from hurting him anymore, and he'd still managed to do so the very next day. By this point, Mick was beginning to believe that Sam's intentions were good. If Sam had wanted to hurt him, he'd certainly had plenty of opportunities by now.

But just because Sam _wanted_ to help him didn't mean that he _could_. It was frighteningly possible that Sam's efforts to help him could actually result in Mick's being hurt even worse, if Ketch figured out what they were up to.

"Okay," Sam said, sitting up straight, withdrawing his hands and reaching for the first aid kit. "Then all we need to take care of is your wrist." He smiled. "I was prepared for a lot worse. This bunker is pretty well stocked for a place that stayed buried for decades. We've got pretty much everything we could possibly need right here…"

Sam's voice trailed off, and his hands stilled before actually making contact with Mick's wrist. Mick looked up at him, uncertain, to find Sam resting his face in his hand for a moment, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he sighed. "I shouldn't have put you through this at all."

Mick blinked, confused. "What?"

He wasn't sure what Sam was talking about. It had been a little nerve-wracking, yeah. But Mick was used to a lot worse. Of all the terrible things he'd imagined when Sam had led him from the library, none had actually happened. From where he sat – Sam hadn't put him through anything at all.

"Just – wait here a minute, okay? I have an idea."

Sam was back in a minute, but he stopped just outside the door, his expression hesitant, a little apologetic.

"So… I brought Cas with me," he explained, stepping into the room, slow and cautious. Castiel moved into the doorway, waiting when Sam held out a hand behind his back to halt him. "I asked him to help…"

Mick rose to his feet, startled. He felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable, half-dressed before them both. And suddenly, one single fact from his extensive education regarding angels stood out in his mind, and made his stomach lurch with dread.

Angels could read minds with a single touch.

"Sam…" he started, backing away from them, his hands raised in front of him. "Please, wait…"

"It's okay," Sam assured him, moving quickly to close the distance between them and catching Mick's arm, stopping his retreat. "It's okay, Mick, no one's going to hurt you…"

" _Don't_ ," Mick pleaded, automatically going pliant in Sam's grasp, though his heart was racing with panic. "Please, Sam…"

Sam suspected Mick was keeping something from him, planning something, working against him – and Sam wasn't exactly wrong. And in just a moment, Sam was going to _know_ rather than suspect, and for all his promises, for all his kindness, Mick knew better than to expect mercy once Sam knew Mick to be a spy. The angel would read Mick's mind, and tell Sam everything, and Mick would never have to worry about Ketch again, because _Sam_ would destroy him for his treachery.

"He's not going to hurt you," Sam insisted. "Mick… please trust me, okay? He's just going to help."

"I'm going to heal your injuries," Castiel explained, moving into the room, but carefully staying a good distance behind Sam. "It's painless, I assure you."

Mick went still, looking between them, uncertain. "What?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled, releasing his grip on Mick's arm and taking a step back. "One touch and it'll all be gone."

Mick swallowed slowly; that was what he was afraid of.

But refusing the angel's help would be suspicious in and of itself. And it wasn't as if Sam couldn't force the issue if he wanted. Sam could easily hold him still, force him to accept the angel's touch, for whatever purpose he wanted to administer it. Unbidden, Mick's mind went back to the one and only time he'd tried to fight Morgan off, and how Ketch had intervened. He could almost feel Ketch's hard grasp on his wrist, his throat… could hear his vicious whispered threats in his ear as Morgan had closed in, already unfastening his pants…

"Mick… hey…" Sam's voice was gentle, concerned, and Mick flinched a little at the touch of Sam's hand on his face. "Look at me…" Mick complied, heart racing, obediently looking up. Sam's eyes were sad, but he was smiling, warm and reassuring. " _Trust me_ … okay?"

Mick _couldn't_. But he couldn't displease Sam, either. He drew in a shaky breath, nodded, closing his eyes as Castiel closed in and reached a hand toward his head.

The slight pressure of his fingertips was accompanied by a flash of heat, bright and piercing and flowing from the point of contact through every nerve ending, right to the tips of Mick's fingers and toes. He gasped, stumbling a little as Castiel removed his hand and the heat faded as swiftly as it had come, leaving in its wake a feeling that had become utterly unfamiliar to Mick over the past few months.

There was… _nothing._ The dull, constant ache of countless bruises, where he'd been kicked and slapped and shoved into walls… was gone. Mick reached a cautious hand to touch the bruise beneath his ribcage, wondering when he pressed down hard, and felt not the slightest trace of pain in response. He looked down at his bare upper body and saw no marks – shifted his weight carefully and felt no lightning stab of pain from Ketch's assault of a few nights earlier – as if his lie to Sam were true, and no one had touched him in weeks… or at all.

Mick raised his hands in front of him, his vision blurring slightly, a lump forming in his throat as he focused on his left wrist, whole and smooth and clear – the constant throbbing ache that had been his ever-present companion for so long – _gone_. He looked up at Castiel in wonder, blinking away tears.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Castiel just nodded once, giving him an awkward little smile, and any lingering fears Mick might have had about the privacy of his thoughts vanished. If Castiel had read his mind, there was no way he'd be smiling at all. Castiel glanced at Sam, who gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

"Thanks, Cas."

Castiel turned and left the room, leaving Mick alone with Sam. He stood there for a moment, still trying to process the sudden, overwhelming shift in his circumstances. He slowly sat down again on the edge of the bed, staring down at his left wrist, holding it loosely in his right. He pressed at it a little, wondering at the sensation of ordinary, painless pressure.

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like – the complete absence of pain.

"Hey…" Sam's hushed, cautious voice was suddenly very close, but Mick felt no fear as Sam sat down beside him on the bed. "You okay?"

Mick nodded, swallowing hard. It was silly, really. He wasn't hurt, wasn't even scared anymore – and yet he couldn't help the tears that spilled down his face, the ache in his throat. Sam's hand was just within his view, reaching out but not quite touching – and Mick reached out instinctively to take it, with his newly whole left hand, clutching it tightly as he whispered out a choked, fervent response.

"Thank you. Sam… _thank you_ …"

Sam squeezed his hand gently, his free hand rising to cup Mick's shoulder. "I didn't _do_ anything," he pointed out softly, his thumb rough and warm, soothing over the bare skin under his hand. "You're welcome, though. You…" Sam hesitated, his words carefully chosen when at last he concluded, "… you _deserve_ to be okay, Mick. You deserve… not to hurt. And – if I can give that to you, I will. I'll do anything I can – anything to help you. Okay?"

And for the first time since Sam had first made such an offer, first promised his help – Mick truly believed him.

When Sam left Mick at headquarters the following morning, Mick went in alone. There was no immediate case for the Winchesters, which meant that Mick was stuck with Ketch for the day – but also meant that Sam would be back for him promptly that evening, with no other obligations to prevent it.

The war room and office were empty, so Mick returned to his filing. He decided to go through the files as he had the chance, look for any record of inappropriate actions Ketch might have taken on a case, or lies he might have put into reports to make himself look better in the eyes of his superiors – just anything that might be useful against Ketch.

"There you are."

Ketch's voice was low and close, his breath hot against Mick's neck. Mick startled at the familiar press of Ketch's hands at his waist, one sliding around to draw him back against Ketch's body. He'd been so lost in his work that he hadn't even heard Ketch approach. His heart pounded as Ketch slid his hand up to Mick's throat, tilting it back and kissing his neck with the leisurely pace of a predator who'd already captured his prey.

"Missed you, love," Ketch whispered, taking Mick's arm and turning him around, pushing him back against the wall and pressing in close. "So tell me about your night. Was it – productive?"

Mick swallowed slowly, holding Ketch's gaze as he admitted softly, "Not particularly."

Ketch's smile faded, his grip on Mick's arm tightening. His tone was warning. "That's not what I wanted to hear."

"I-I know," Mick replied, keeping his voice low and steady, dropping his gaze in apologetic submission. "I tried, but – they don't appear to be working on any particular case at the moment, and – they didn't talk about anything of importance. At least – not within my hearing. They – did a bit of weapons maintenance, had a meal, and then – Sam took me to his room for the rest of the night. Everything after that, well – was not of any interest to you."

Ketch's smile returned, slow and cruel, as he shifted in closer, sliding a hand under Mick's shirt and pressing him back against the wall. "I'm quite certain _that's_ not true."

Mick drew in a slow breath, struggling to keep his rising anxiety at bay. "I'm sorry," he continued, trying to keep the conversation on topic. "I don't think Sam trusts me. The Winchesters – they aren't idiots. Perhaps he suspects that you've sent me to spy on them."

"Then perhaps you aren't doing your job properly," Ketch countered, his voice harder.

"I'm sorry," Mick repeated, his voice low and subdued. "I'm keeping my eyes and ears open, looking for anything useful. If I do anything more at this point, Sam will definitely be suspicious. You have to give me a bit more time…"

"I don't _have_ to give you _anything_ ," Ketch snapped.

Mick was utterly unsurprised when he reached down to grasp Mick's left wrist. He winced out of sheer habit, as Ketch slammed it hard against the wall beside his head. Ketch immediately went still and quiet, and Mick closed his eyes, braced for his reaction when he discovered what Sam had done. Ketch slid Mick's sleeve back a little, brushing his thumb against Mick's wrist gently.

"Well," he remarked, his voice low and soft. "Seems Sam Winchester put his angel to work, didn't he?"

Mick nodded, swallowing slowly as he raised his eyes to meet Ketch's piercing gaze. "He _did_ say he prefers an unmarked canvas."

Ketch's eyes narrowed, and Mick felt a rush of intense satisfaction at the frustrated clench of his jaw, confirmation that Ketch's intentions had been thwarted. He couldn't risk leaving a mark on Mick that Sam might find later. Even so, Ketch slid his hand down to grasp Mick's arm, raising it over his head and holding it against the wall as he moved in close, his free hand stroking the bare skin beneath Mick's shirt.

"Careful, love," Ketch warned, his voice low and menacing against Mick's ear, sending a shiver through him in spite of his new sense of triumph. "There are a hundred ways in which I can hurt you without leaving a single mark."

"I know," Mick whispered, nodding slowly.

His heart raced. He knew it was true, knew better than to push Ketch to lash out. He had a new measure of protection, it was true – but Ketch was creative in finding ways to administer pain, and Mick knew him well enough to know that it was possible to push him past the point where the deal mattered to him anymore. He was safer, now, but not quite _safe_.

Still… Ketch let him go, backing up a step, without hurting him. "We _will_ give it time," he decided. "Give Sam the chance to get used to your presence in the bunker – to start to see you as part of the furniture, so to speak. Then he'll begin to let things slip, to be a little more careless, perhaps. And then, perhaps, you'll find something useful to bring me."

"Yes," Mick agreed, nodding. "I will do my best. I'm – sorry to have disappointed you."

Ketch just sneered at him, derisive as he turned and walked away – without hurting Mick at all.

And Mick felt a rush of satisfaction and power that he hadn't felt in as long as he could remember, and a bright surge of hope, that maybe Sam's plan could work. Maybe they could beat Ketch, and remove him from his seat of power, and bring the British Men of Letters' operations in the US back to what they were originally intended to be.

Maybe they could _win_ , after all.


	8. Chapter 8

An uneventful forty-eight hours passed before Ketch assigned the Winchesters another case. Two evenings Mick spent in the library with Sam, learning more about the nephilim dilemma that was occupying most of his time. Two days spent assisting Ketch and pretending that he'd learned nothing of value in his time spent with Sam.

Ketch was cool and controlled, even distant, but Mick could sense his frustration at having to restrain his more violent tendencies. There were moments when he'd clench his fist, something dark and vindictive in his eyes that made Mick's stomach lurch – only to turn and walk away without saying or doing anything. For his part, Sam was kind and encouraging and very open with Mick, discussing his research and asking Mick what he thought and trusting him to keep his confidences – and in the course of those forty-eight hours, Mick reached a decision.

He was going to tell Sam the truth.

Sooner or later, the time would come when Ketch wouldn't be satisfied with Mick's excuses any longer, and Mick would have to give him _something_. If he told Sam about Ketch's orders now, perhaps Sam could help, maybe give him some information to pass on, something interesting enough to appease Ketch without actually compromising the Winchesters.

Sam might be angry with him for keeping this from him for so long already, might not believe his assurances that he hadn't told Ketch anything thus far – but Sam would _definitely_ be angry if he found out about it later, on his own.

Sam hadn't yet laid a hand on Mick to hurt him. He'd done nothing but to _take away_ Mick's pain.

The safest thing Mick could do was to tell Sam. Sam might be angry, but he wouldn't hurt him.

Mick was _almost_ sure.

When Ketch informed him that he would be working the Winchesters' next case with them, he knew that it would be the perfect opportunity to tell Sam the truth. Several days on the road with the Winchesters, uninterrupted – suddenly, Mick's stomach began to feel a little unsettled, his nerves on edge.

 _Sam won't be angry. He won't. I'm sure he won't…_

"I've acquired flawless IDs for all three of you," Ketch explained as Mick served coffee and tea to him, Sam, and Dean, seated around the conference table. "You're FBI agents, without the flashy rock star monikers, I'm afraid." Ketch laid a hand casually low on Mick's back as he leaned over to pour his tea. "And he'll be a forensic photographer working the case with you, assisting you in gathering evidence. There have been three murders in the past week, with no apparent connection, and so help me, Mick, if you spill that over my hands, I'll hold yours to the kettle until you understand the need to be _careful_ with hot liquids, understood?"

"Yes, sir," Mick responded immediately, his mouth dry. His hands had started shaking the moment Ketch touched him. He tried to steady them as he set the kettle down and moved on to serve Sam from the pot of coffee. "Sorry, sir."

"Now, Ketch, no you won't," Sam reminded him, a light, teasing note to his voice as he slid his arm around Mick's hips, waiting until he'd set the coffee down to tug him in close beside him. "He'll be needing those hands later." His smile faded a little as he added, "And discipline's up to me, remember?"

"If he scalds me with boiling water, all bets are off," Ketch snapped. "I'm quite certain I've got the better end of this bargain, Sam, he's utterly _useless_ these days."

"That's not _quite_ true," Sam mused, his tone suggestive.

As he spoke, Sam's hand at Mick's side squeezed gently, and Mick felt oddly reassured. If Sam had made any attempt whatsoever to touch him in the five nights they'd spent under the same roof, Mick might have found his words unsettling. But by this point, he was fairly certain that Sam's suggestive words were solely for Ketch's benefit. To Ketch, Mick knew that Sam's arm around him appeared possessive, perhaps even threatening – but Mick didn't feel threatened at all.

He felt _safe_.

"These are angel kills," Dean pointed out, his voice low and thoughtful as he studied the photos that Ketch had passed across the table to them, and Mick knew he was referencing the burned out eyes present in all three cases. Dean looked up to meet Ketch's eyes before asking, his voice level and deceptively detached, "What do you guys do with angels, anyway?"

" _Do_ with them?" Ketch frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Well, I know where you stand with vamps and things like that. World without monsters and all – and demons are straight up evil like, all the time. But angels – they're kind of a gray area, aren't they? So – what do you do with angels?"

"With an angel that's taken human lives at his own whim?" Ketch pointed out, nodding toward the pictures in front of them. "Stop them, of course. Kill them, usually – unless they're… otherwise useful." He paused, a calculating smile on his lips as he concluded, "Why, Dean? What do _you_ do with them?"

Dean was still fuming as they made their way to the Impala a few minutes later. "That pompous douchebag!" he snarled, slamming the car door so hard that Mick flinched. "What do _you_ do with them, Dean?" he mimicked in a dreadful exaggeration of Ketch's accent a couple of octaves higher than Ketch's actual voice. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Sam wisely kept silent and let Dean talk. Mick wouldn't have dreamed of attempting to interject. Ketch's words had apparently struck a nerve. Mick had noticed that Dean seemed unusually close to the angel Castiel, but hadn't really suspected anything of the nature that Ketch had been insinuating.

Not until he saw Dean's reaction, anyway.

"All I'm saying is," Dean concluded as he turned them onto the highway, "if that dick even _thinks_ in Cas's direction, I'm gonna rip him apart. Human or not, I don't give a fuck."

Mick decided right then that there was no way he was going to tell Sam about Ketch's orders in front of Dean. He would have to wait and watch for a chance to speak with Sam alone, at some point before the trip was over.

A few hours later, Mick stood in the morgue in the small town of Hephzibah, Georgia, quietly taking pictures with the expensive camera Ketch had provided, while Sam and Dean spoke with the coroner in his office. As it turned out, there was something important that hadn't been visible in Ketch's pictures – a small Enochian symbol burned into the palm of each victim's right hand.

He took a close-up picture of the symbol, then quietly presented the camera to Sam as they exited the building, pointing out the image in question on the screen.

"Nice catch," Sam said with a grin. "Time to find a place with decent wi-fi and get into research mode."

"Time to eat," Dean countered. "I saw this little burger joint a couple miles back."

Ten minutes later, they were seated in a corner booth, Sam and Mick on one side, and Dean on the other. Sam's laptop was open in front of him by the time the waitress came to take their order.

"Double cheeseburger, double bacon, double order of fries," Dean requested with a wink. He grinned in response to Sam's disapproving look. "What?"

Sam just shook his head, looking up at the waitress. "I'll have the grilled chicken salad, with Italian dressing on the side, thanks."

It was only when the waitress turned her attention toward Mick that he realized he hadn't even glanced at the menu. In recent weeks, his appetite had been all but replaced by an ever-present sense of nausea, due to the anxiety of trying to satisfy Ketch's demands, compounded by constant physical pain. Though he wasn't in pain now, and Ketch was far away, Mick still felt a little nauseated, thinking about the conversation he needed to have with Sam; but he was acutely self-conscious under the expectant eyes of not only the waitress, but both Winchesters as well, waiting for him to place his order.

"I'll, ah… I'll have the same, thank you," he answered at last, giving the young woman a bright smile.

As she walked away, Dean fixed him with a speculative look. After a moment's consideration, he said, "You know, just 'cause Sam here's made the choice to suffer through life doesn't mean you have to, too."

"Maybe he would just rather not die of a heart attack at forty," Sam retorted.

The beginnings of a laugh escaped Mick's lips before he quickly suppressed it, glancing uneasily at Dean.

"Hey, if you think it's funny, laugh," Dean shrugged. "It's _not_ , but whatever."

Sam grinned. "No, what's really funny is you, killing demons and vampires and gods and freaking _Hitler_ – and getting taken out by your love for bacon."

Mick half-listened to the Winchesters' good-natured bickering, his thoughts distracted with trying to formulate the appropriate words to tell Sam later on, until their food arrived a few minutes later. Dean's burger was half gone in five minutes, while Sam took bites of his salad in between glances at his laptop.

"Check this out," Sam said after a few minutes, nudging Mick's shoulder and drawing his attention to his laptop screen, where he'd accessed what appeared to be an extensive guide to Enochian symbols and language. "I think I found that symbol you found on the victims. This one here, it says it means, 'to buy'."

"So, it was a paid kill, maybe?" Dean suggested. "Somebody bought this angel's services as a hitman?"

Mick studied the symbol closely, frowning a little. Sam's translation was just slightly off. He hesitated to correct Sam, but his error, though small, was enough to be potentially important. "Actually," he pointed out, quiet and careful. "That's… not exactly what the symbol on the victims means."

"The Enochian translation is wrong?" Sam frowned.

"No, _you're_ …" Mick broke off abruptly, biting his lip and glancing up at Sam, his face heating at Dean's little chuff of laughter around a bite of his burger. "I mean… that's not the same symbol as on the victims. See this little mark right here…" He pointed to the screen on his camera, showing Sam where he meant. "That's slightly different. That's not quite the same symbol as the one you just found. I'm fairly certain the symbol on the victims' hands means 'to buy _back_ ' – as in… redeem."

Sam typed the words into the search bar at the top of the page, and waited until another symbol came up beneath them, exactly like the one on Mick's camera. He stared at Mick for a moment, and Mick began to feel a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything. Perhaps he shouldn't have contradicted Sam, especially in front of Dean.

"Damn," Sam said softly after a moment. "That's off the top of your head?"

Mick shrugged a little, looking away, though he couldn't help a slight smile at Sam's impressed tone. "Ancient languages was a focus of my studies."

"Hey, that's pretty impressive, newbie," Dean remarked. "Now that you're on the team, maybe you should be official research guy, and me and Sam can be the action guys. I get to stay away from the musty books and computers, you get to stay away from the deadly weapons… we solve our cases faster and no one gets shot in the foot. Sound good?"

Mick's heart sank with disappointment as Dean spoke. He wasn't surprised that Dean wanted to sideline him. His lack of experience had nearly gotten Sam killed once already, after all. But he desperately wanted to learn to be a better hunter, and he knew there was no chance of that as long as he was relegated to the parts of the case that didn't involve any action.

"Nah," Sam argued. "That doesn't work. Because Mick's going to get to be good at doing a lot more than research, and then he'll be research guy _and_ weapons skills guy, and hand to hand guy, and..."

"Multiple personality guy?" Dean suggested.

Mick smiled, though his attention was focused more on Sam than on Dean's lame little joke, a rush of relief flowing through him at Sam's support.

"Besides," Sam added, giving Mick a sly sideways grin. "I still get to be research guy, too, sometimes."

"Nerd," Dean remarked, affectionately teasing. Then he amended, "Nerds." He took another bite of his burger before asking, "So what's that mean, then? If the symbol means 'to redeem' then like – it's talking about their souls? Maybe they sold them?"

"They hadn't experienced any recent good fortune, though," Mick pointed out. "Shouldn't they have, if they'd made a deal?"

"Maybe they just hadn't experienced it _yet_ ," Sam pointed out, thoughtful. "Wait," he began, holding up a hand. "Wait – I've got it. So – what if they made deals, sold their souls – and this angel, whoever he is – he's taking them out before they can get what they dealt for. That's what the symbol's about. He thinks he's redeeming them. They die before they get what they dealt for, and the deal is void, right?"

Dean sat up a little, interested. "That's what Crowley told me, once," he confirmed. "If the deal is made, but the guy dies before they get what they dealt for – deal's off. Hell doesn't get the soul."

"So – this angel thinks he's saving them," Mick concluded, slowly processing.

"He _is_ saving them," Dean said, his voice low and grim. "They'd be tortured in Hell and eventually turned demon, and who knows how many other people they'd hurt or kill?" He shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh, setting down what was left of his burger and sitting back in his seat. "I'm suddenly not too excited about taking this angel out anymore."

"He doesn't get to decide who gets to live and who doesn't," Sam argued, though his words were quiet and heavy. "They made a stupid choice, but – it's still their choice."

"Yeah, and once they become demons in Hell, they're gonna take a lot of choices from a lot of other people, too," Dean retorted. "This whole thing sucks."

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Mick's stomach, as he looked between the brothers, reading the uncertainty on their faces. "We're still going to finish the job, though," he guessed, quiet and tentative. "Right? I mean – we still have our orders."

" _You_ have orders," Dean corrected, giving him a dark look that made him shiver a little and look away. "We have official clearance to work the case _our_ way. Right?" He looked to Sam for confirmation.

Sam nodded. "That's the deal."

Mick considered. That _was_ what Ketch had said. Still, he knew that if they didn't complete this mission, it would mean nothing but trouble for them when the Old Men found out. No one said anything for a few interminable seconds, before Dean broke the silence.

"So… what is our way, exactly?"

Sam frowned, pensive, then began slowly, "First, we confirm that that's what's actually going on. Call Crowley, find out if these victims had recently made deals."

Dean nodded once, taking out his phone. "On it. And then… maybe we call in Cas. Have him help us figure out who the angel is, confirm that's really what his motivations are. Either way, wouldn't hurt to have his input. Maybe he's got some ideas."

Sam nodded. "Sounds like we have a plan."

Mick was extremely uneasy with said plan. He felt a little sick, his minimal appetite faltering. He pushed his salad around a bit with his fork, sipped water and managed a couple of bites. Sam frowned at Mick's mostly full plate, gesturing toward it with his fork, though he didn't speak immediately, his own mouth full of chicken and vegetables. Mick hesitantly pushed his barely touched plate an inch or two closer to Sam, and Dean laughed. Mick looked between them in uneasy confusion as Sam swallowed his food and smiled.

"No, I've got plenty, thanks," he remarked. " _You_ eat."

"I'm… not all that hungry right now…"

"Eat anyway," Sam ordered, taking another bite.

"Seriously, dude, I've seen you eat like, three bites these last few nights. Don't tell me Sam and I wasted our hard-hustled money on an overpriced bowl of rabbit food you're not even gonna eat."

"You need to be at the top of your game, anytime you're on a case – and especially right now, with this whole thing with Ketch," Sam pointed out, shaking his head a little as he took another bite. "You need your brain food."

"Why don't you worry over me like that, Sam?" Dean teased. "I don't know if I should be offended or not."

"Want me to tell you to lick your plate clean?" Sam retorted with a little huff, eyeing the meager remnants of Dean's lunch. "No chance of _you_ going hungry."

Mick dutifully ate his salad, while the Winchesters continued their good-natured bickering, and neither brother commented on the fact that it took him twice as long as either of them to finish his meal. When they were finished, they drove until they found a little motel on the edge of town that advertised "cheap, clean rooms" on their sign, and checked in for the night. Dean called Crowley and Castiel, neither of whom answered their phones immediately, and left a couple of rather disgruntled voicemails.

"Would it be all right if I – may I take a shower?" Mick asked as the Winchesters unpacked their bags. He didn't want to risk being unavailable if Sam needed him for something.

"Dude, you don't have to ask," Sam assured him. "We're just waiting around for now. Go for it."

Mick took a clean t-shirt and sweatpants into the bathroom with him and carefully locked the door, before turning on the water, taking off his clothes, and stepping under the steaming spray. The locked bathroom door was meager protection, Mick knew. If Sam wanted to get to him, the flimsy plywood wouldn't stop him.

But Mick was increasingly sure that Sam wouldn't try something like that. He'd spent five nights in the bunker with Sam, and Sam hadn't touched him except to help him. He'd given him a bedroom door with a lock on it, and a safe place to sleep without fear of who might come into his bedroom in the middle of the night, or with what intent. Sam worried over his rest, over whether or not he was getting enough to eat, and reassured him that he was _safe_ now – and with each time, Mick believed it just a little bit more.

He looked down at the pale, unblemished skin under his hands as he smoothed soap over his arms and stomach. The lack of bruises there, the untouched quality of it was evidence enough.

He could tell Sam the truth.

Mick got out of the shower and dried off, then got dressed and stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing his towel on his head to dry his hair. Sam was sitting on the edge of one of the beds, and Dean was in the chair at the table, his cell phone in his hand.

"Cas is on his way," he informed Mick.

"I've been looking into the vics' personal lives a little bit, too," Sam put in from his seat at the small desk across from the beds. "And two out of three had potential reasons to make deals. The first vic just found out their house was being foreclosed on, and the third just lost a child in a car accident. Nothing in public record on the second one, so far, but – that doesn't mean they didn't have a reason. So far – the theory fits."

"If Crowley'd get off his ass and call me back," Dean grumbled, glaring at his phone on the table. "He could confirm it for sure."

They were both quiet for a moment before Sam looked up at Dean with a sigh. "I almost hope we're wrong."

Mick nodded slowly. He understood the Winchesters' sense of conflict. He could even understand the reasoning that had led the angel they were hunting to commit his crimes. But it didn't really change anything. They still had to find it, and kill it. There was no way that the Old Men would accept anything less. Still, he kept silent.

If there was one thing he'd learned in his years of survival, it was how to read a room.

He sat down on the unoccupied bed and took out his own laptop, opening a new document and beginning to prepare his report on the case so far – though he wasn't sure exactly what to put in it. Nothing they had done so far was going to go over well with Ketch, or the Old Men.

He tried to distract his mind for a while with the old gangster movie Dean had found on the television, but found his thoughts too preoccupied to allow him to really rest. A sudden knock at the door made him jump, and Sam rose to his feet, placing a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder as Dean went to answer it.

"It's just Cas," Sam reminded him softly.

Mick nodded, remembering. "Right."

Mick stayed quiet and out of the way while the Winchesters explained the situation to Castiel, who nodded grimly, thoughtful. "I'd heard rumors, but wasn't sure they were true. If we could find the angel responsible, I could return him to Heaven, to be rehabilitated."

Dean frowned. "Like they tried to rehabilitate you? Way I heard, that was pretty brutal."

"And completely ineffective," Sam interjected, earning a small smile from the angel.

"Heaven isn't like it once was, Dean," Castiel explained. "It's a much more balanced, healthy place these days. The angel will be prevented from returning to earth until he or she understands that they cannot play God with the lives of humans – but there won't be any torture or cruelty. It seems in the last couple of years, Heaven has been vastly… reformed."

Sam nodded slowly. "That… actually sounds like a really good solution for everyone. I mean… I get it. Why the angel's doing it. This is a way to stop him without actually hurting him."

"Give me the night," Castiel requested. "I may be able to solve this on my own, without any bloodshed."

The Winchesters agreed, and Mick was left even more confused and unsettled than before – because it actually sounded like a very solid solution. It wasn't what the Code would have dictated, wasn't what his leaders would have wanted, he was sure – but it served to prevent any more loss of human life, without punishing a creature that didn't really sound as if it meant any harm.

Castiel got up and headed for the door, and Dean rose with him. "Be right back," he called over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him.

Sam smiled after him, shaking his head a little in affectionate amusement, and Mick found himself wondering once again just how accurate Ketch's insinuations about Dean's relationship with the angel had been.

"So," Sam said brightly as he tossed his duffel bag onto the empty bed and took out his own pajamas. "Looks like this case might be solved by morning. Might as well settle in for the night."

Mick realized abruptly that Sam was right – this case would likely be concluded by morning, and he would be back with Ketch, and he hadn't told Sam anything yet, and this was likely the best chance he was going to get. His heart thudded in his chest, his stomach lurching as he sat up on the edge of the bed, setting his laptop aside and drawing in a shaky breath.

"Sam?" he began, his voice coming out weak and worried. "I – I need to talk to you. About something."

Sam turned back toward Mick, concern in his eyes. "What's up?" he asked, setting down his neatly folded clothes on the bed and sitting down beside them, facing Mick and giving him his full attention – which of course only made him more anxious.

Mick swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "I – I've been meaning to tell you for days. It's – a problem, and I'm not sure what to do about it, and I'm sorry, I should have told you sooner, but…"

" _Mick._ " Sam cut him off gently, leaning forward and reaching across the narrow space between them to still Mick's trembling hand by enclosing it in his own. " _Stop_. Breathe. Whatever it is – we'll fix it. It's okay, you're telling me now."

Sam's voice was warm, calming, and Mick obeyed automatically. His mind went back to those first few moments with Sam, right after Ketch had left him in the bunker, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a couple of deep, shaky breaths. He looked up at Sam, self-conscious at his own reaction – and was overcome with gratitude to see that Sam was matching his breaths, patient and gently leading, his hand still closed around Mick's.

"Ketch," Mick blurted out at last, closing his eyes against Sam's reaction, whatever it would be. "He told me I'm to spy on you and Dean and report back to him. I'm quite certain it's a large part of why he agreed to the deal." He looked up, hesitant; Sam's face was serious, taking it in, but not overtly angry or shocked. "I haven't told him anything, though, Sam, I swear it. I didn't say a word about the nephilim, and I won't! Please believe me…"

"I do," Sam said simply, squeezing Mick's hand. "When did he tell you to do this?"

Mick swallowed slowly. If Sam was going to be angry, it was going to be that Mick had kept it from him for so long. "A few days ago," he whispered. "The – the day Castiel healed me." He looked down, shame coming over him.

Sam just nodded slowly. "Is that it?" he asked finally, quiet and calm.

Mick looked up at him sharply. "Is – is that _it_?" he echoed, dubious. When Sam said nothing more, just looked at him expectantly, he finally replied, "Well – yeah. That's it, I suppose. But I'm not going to tell him anything, Sam, I swear I won't…"

"I know," Sam assured him. "Mick, don't worry, I'm not mad. I'm kinda – not even a little bit surprised, you know?" He grimaced. "It's about what I'd expect from him. You were right to tell me." He smiled, squeezing Mick's hand before letting go of it and sitting up straighter. "I was right to trust you."

Mick stared up at Sam in disbelief for a long moment, taking in the kindness and appreciation in his smile, feeling a warm glow bloom in his chest at Sam's obvious approval.

 _And I was wrong to doubt you…_

Relief flooded through Mick in an overwhelming rush. Sam wasn't angry, wasn't going to hurt him. Unbelievably, Sam was _pleased_ with him – for opening up and telling him the secret he'd been keeping. Mick supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised; Sam had shown nothing but kindness, and a desire to help Mick out of his problems. Mick could trust him with this burden; Sam would know what to do.

"There's… still a problem," Mick confessed, feeling the weight begin to lift from his shoulders even as he admitted it. "For now, he's convinced that you _don't_ trust me. You haven't revealed anything important in front of me, and it's going to take a little time before you'll let your guard down enough for that."

"Right." Sam nodded. "Good thinking."

"But… that won't work forever." Mick looked up at Sam, anxious. "Sooner or later he'll want _something_ …"

"And we'll give it to him," Sam assured Mick, calm and confident. "We'll come up with something that's enough to keep him satisfied, until we can take him down. Don't worry. He can't hurt you. All right?"

Mick nodded, looking away.

"Hey." Sam reached out a hand and tilted Mick's head up, and Mick reluctantly surrendered the eye contact Sam was silently requesting. "He hasn't – has he? Not since the deal?"

Mick swallowed hard, holding Sam's gaze. He wasn't sure what Sam would do if he knew. "No," he said softly. "Not – not since he agreed not to."

Sam's expression was sharp, focused, and Mick wanted badly to look away, but he made himself hold Sam's gaze. "You'd tell me," Sam said softly. "Wouldn't you? If he tried to hurt you again?"

"Yeah," Mick replied without hesitation, nodding. "Yeah, course I would."

Sam studied Mick's face for an interminable moment, before nodding slowly. "Okay. Good. You tell me if he tries anything. I'll take care of it."

Mick nodded. "I will," he promised. He was fairly certain Ketch wouldn't, not now that he didn't have any existing injuries to blame for it. "He's – not going to like this, though. This case, the way it's panning out. I'm not sure what to tell him."

Sam frowned. "He said he'd give us the freedom to do it our way."

"He might be all right with doing that, but the Old Men won't," Mick explained. "And he still has to answer to them. I – I'm not sure what to tell him."

Sam considered for a moment, and then smiled slowly. "Everything," he replied, meeting Mick's eyes with a mischievous glint in his own.

Mick frowned, worried. "Everything?"

"Yeah. He told us we could do it our way – so we do. And then, what can he do about it? He doesn't want to jeopardize his deal with me and Dean, so – he has to accept it. But if he knows the British leadership _won't_ accept it, then…"

"He'll lie to them." Mick's eyes widened as he caught onto what Sam was suggesting. "He'll file a false report with them, instead of the one I give him."

"And we make sure we have copies of both," Sam concluded. "That's something Ketch wouldn't want them to see, isn't it? Something to use against him."

"Yeah." Mick nodded slowly, feeling a stir of excitement at the thought of the first piece of actual evidence against Ketch that they would soon be able to acquire. "Yeah. It's a start."

Dean came back into the room a little while later, without Cas, and they settled in for the night. Mick had assumed that he'd simply make a pallet on the floor from extra blankets and pillows, but Sam diverted him from that plan, insisting that he take one of the beds.

"It's not the first time Dean and I have ever shared," he pointed out.

Mick was hesitant, unwilling to be an inconvenience. "It's really quite all right." He offered Sam a self-deprecating little smile, pointing out, "I've slept in much worse places. I'll be fine…"

"No." Sam's voice was gentle but firm as he pulled the cover away from Mick's arms and put it back on the bed. "You won't get any decent rest on the floor. Take that bed."

"Dude, I wouldn't argue," Dean advised from his spot on the other bed, the same one where Sam had set his duffel bag, and Mick realized that the brothers had already discussed sleeping arrangements for the night at some point. "He tends to get what he wants."

"I'm… beginning to see that." But Mick was smiling as he spoke, feeling that strange warmth in his chest bloom a little brighter under Sam's concern.

He still felt a little uneasy as he lay down in the bed as instructed, but his stomach was full and the bed was soft and warm, and his blissfully pain-free body far more weary than he'd realized. Mick slipped swiftly into a deep sleep untouched by nightmares, that lasted all the way until morning.

Mick awakened the next morning to the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He startled briefly before realizing that the hand was gentle and warm, not grasping and painful - so, Sam. Not Ketch. He was safe, in the motel room where he'd spent the night with Sam and Dean - untouched throughout the night.

Mick blinked the sleep away, his eyes coming into focus on Sam's smiling face.

"Cas is here. He's got news."

Mick rolled over onto his back and saw Dean and Castiel seated at the table.

"Good morning," Castiel offered.

"Yeah, same to you," Mick pulled himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "What time is it?"

"Like ten." Sam grinned. "Dude, you slept like the dead. Must have needed it."

Mick couldn't express how much _that_ was true. He couldn't remember the last night he'd spent that wasn't plagued by pain every time he shifted his body in the wrong way, or the fear that Ketch might get bored and decide to pay him a visit in the middle of the night, or the last two nights, simply troubled uncertainty as to where his loyalties should lie, and who he should trust, and what he should do.

But those questions had been answered the night before, when he'd told Sam the truth.

 _Sam. Trust Sam._ That's _what you should do…_

"Crowley called about an hour ago," Dean informed the room. "Confirmed all three vics had pending deals."

Castiel nodded. "I located the angel responsible for the killings, and he confirmed as well that his motive was simply to restore these humans' souls to them." Castiel looked a little sad. "His name is Tamiel. And he is a good soldier. I told him that this is not what Heaven would have him do. He was – confused, but agreed to go back to Heaven with me. He's there now, and I've been assured by those in charge that he won't be allowed to return to earth until they're certain he'll no longer harm humans."

"Well," Dean replied after a moment, grimly resigned. "I guess we'll see."

"If he does," Sam pointed out, gentle but serious as he caught and held Castiel's gaze. "It's on us, Cas. You know that."

Castiel nodded, solemn and intent. "I am aware. It will not be a problem. I will check in regularly to ensure that his rehabilitation is going well. And if it fails, and he continues to try to harm humans, well - I'll take care of that, too."

"Okay, then. Sounds like it's all under control."

"So, breakfast, then hit the road?" Dean suggested.

"Let's wait a while." Sam smiled, glancing at his watch and then giving Mick a wink. "Let's wait until, say, two o'clock or so?"

Dean frowned for a moment as he did the math, then grinned. "So we get back to headquarters just about evening. Gotcha."

"Exactly." Sam nodded. "In the meantime, we grab a bite, hang out here and just relax, and we make sure the trip is timed so that we're back just in time to report to Ketch, then get back in the car and head for home."

Relief washed over Mick with the understanding that he would not have to deal with Ketch for any significant portion of the day. When he met Sam's eyes, Sam was giving him a satisfied smile.

"Figured you'd like that idea."

"Bloody _brilliant_ idea," Mick agreed, for once actually feeling the smile that spread across his face. "Thanks, Sam."

They went back to the diner for breakfast, then returned to the room and passed the day in comfortable idleness – for the most part. The Winchesters watched television and talked a bit, and Mick did a little of those things too, but spent much of his time working on the report Ketch would expect when they got back to headquarters. He was almost finished with it when Sam stopped behind him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder as he leaned in to scan the words Mick had typed.

"Looks good," he remarked. "Looks like it'll piss off his superiors. Which means they won't see it at all, until we show it to them. Nice."

Mick felt something tight and expectant within him relax with Sam's approval. He finished the report and put away his laptop, scooting his chair back a little. Sam and Dean were comfortably relaxed on separate beds, so Mick stayed where he was, until Sam scooted over to one side of his bed, patting the empty space he'd just made.

"That's gonna kill your back, dude," he remarked mildly. "Come sit over here, you'll be more comfortable."

Mick felt just slightly uneasy at the suggestion. If anyone else had been making it, he'd have been certain they had ulterior motives. But this was _Sam_ , and Sam was gentle and patient and hadn't touched him like that, not even once. Sam worried over whether he ate, or slept, or was comfortable. Sam was just being considerate.

A little shyly, Mick accepted the offer, moving around to the far side of the bed and sitting down next to Sam with his back against the headboard. Sam smiled at him and teasingly bumped him with his elbow once, but didn't do anything else – and Mick felt that tight, uncertain ache in his chest ease just a little bit more, with every single time Sam proved himself worthy of Mick's trust.

Finally, with just enough time left to get back to headquarters before dark, they set out on the road back toward Lebanon.

Mick found himself drifting off in the backseat, lulled by the motion of the vehicle, the quiet music on the radio, and the steady hum of the Winchesters' conversation. He supposed his body must have been making up for lost time – now that he was safe, demanding the rest that had been denied it. He woke up when the vehicle finally stopped inside the parking area at headquarters, and tried to push back the uneasy feeling he immediately felt, just at being there.

 _It's just for a few minutes, and we'll be gone again… just have to get through the next few minutes…_

But when he got out of the Impala and saw the dark red truck parked a few yards away, his stomach dropped, uneasiness turning to something more akin to panic. A cold trickle of fear made its way down his spine, and suddenly he found it difficult to put one foot in front of the other, knowing who he'd find when he got inside. He recognized that truck, had seen it many times, and ridden in it a few as well.

It was Morgan's.


	9. Chapter 9

"You okay?"

Sam's large hand rested on Mick's shoulder, steadying and concerned, and Mick blinked, tearing his attention away from Morgan's truck and looking up to meet Sam's worried, searching eyes. He forced a bright smile, despite his roiling stomach, adjusting the strap of the camera bag slung over his shoulder and nodding.

"I'm fine," he said firmly. He didn't want to tell Sam about Morgan, and risk possibly delaying their departure. "Just ready to get out of here."

Sam gave him a sympathetic grimace, squeezing his shoulder. "It'll just be a few minutes," he promised. "Come on."

Ketch was standing near the conference table, rifling through a folder full of papers, when they approached. Mick's eyes scanned the room until he found Morgan, seated at a smaller table off to the side, packing supplies into a duffel bag. He glanced up as they entered, nodding at the Winchesters, waiting until they'd looked away to meet Mick's eyes with a slow, secretive smile. Mick shivered, looking away and hurrying his pace toward Ketch.

"My report," he offered quietly, holding it out, setting the camera bag down on the table.

Ketch took it with a curt nod, nodding in greeting to Sam and Dean as well. "I assume all went smoothly?"

"Well, that angel won't be killing any more humans. That's what counts, right?" Dean replied.

Ketch frowned, leafing through Mick's report to the last page. He read quickly, and as he did, his expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Sam, Dean," he said at last, cool and carefully controlled. "May I speak with you in my office."

Mick caught the amused expression that passed between the brothers, but he saw nothing amusing about Ketch's visibly rising anger. He just felt sick – though it was difficult to determine whether that was due to Ketch's obvious disapproval, or Morgan's piercing gaze locked onto him from across the room. He shivered as he followed Sam and Dean through the doorway to the office that had once been his own.

"No, not you," Ketch snapped, rounding on him in frustration. He pointed at the camera bag on the table. "Take that and put it away."

Mick glanced past it to the spot where Morgan had been working – now empty.

 _Perhaps he left… he packed up the supplies he needed and he left… that's all…_

"Yes, sir," Mick replied, keeping his voice low to disguise the faint tremor that would have betrayed his fear.

He shouldered the bag once more and headed down the hall toward the equipment room, swiping his key card to open the door. He hurriedly put down the camera bag, not bothering to replace it properly; he just wanted to get back to the relatively public safety of the conference room as quickly as possible. The door hadn't even closed all the way before he pushed it open again to head out into the hall.

Then he stopped short. Morgan was standing in the doorway, his broad form blocking the hall. He grinned, giving Mick a slow, lecherous look.

"Hey, gorgeous."

Morgan stepped forward and shoved him back into the equipment room. Mick ducked and tried to twist away, but Morgan pushed him hard, sending him stumbling backward, then again so that Mick's back hit the far wall. Mick raised his hands to hold him off, but Morgan's hands were already roaming over his body, greedy and too familiar. Mick tried to pull away as Morgan's hand groped his ass, rough and possessive, his other hand tugging Mick's shirt free of his belt and reaching under it with rough, grasping fingers.

"No, stop," Mick protested, grabbing at Morgan's wrists, trying to push his hands away. "You can't do this, he should have talked to you… you can't do this anymore…"

"The fuck you talking about?" Morgan retorted. "I can do whatever I want." He stepped back a little, hands reaching to unbuckle his belt already. "Get on your knees."

" _No!_ "

Mick shoved hard against Morgan's broad, solid chest, managing only to make him stumble back a step – but that was all Mick needed. His heart raced; he could hardly believe he'd dared to raise his hand to Morgan, as many times as doing so had gone _so very badly_ for him in the past.

Morgan couldn't seem to believe it either.

He just stood there, staring incredulously as Mick swiftly sidestepped past him and rushed toward the door. But just as he reached it, Morgan's thick hand seized his arm and flung him back against the wall again, knocking his head into it with dizzying force. He followed up the blow with a fierce backhand, and Mick almost collapsed.

But Morgan pressed one arm heavily across his collarbone, holding him tight against the wall while his other hand reached down between Mick's legs, grasping tight and twisting. Mick's knees buckled, and he let out a breathless cry of pain, choking as he tried to inhale against the suffocating pressure of Morgan's arm. He reached one hand down instinctively to try to dislodge Morgan's grip, but it only made Morgan squeeze harder, until Mick was dizzy and lightheaded with pain.

"Thought we'd gotten over you fighting me, bitch," Morgan snarled, finally releasing his agonizing grip and backing off just enough to allow Mick to sink to his knees, reaching for his belt again. "You'd best just stop your whining and make that pretty mouth useful."

Mick braced one hand against the wall, gasping in deep, shuddering breaths as he struggled to recover, to regain his balance. Slowly, the pain began to ebb, and he glared up at Morgan, defiant, as he raised a hand to wipe the blood from his mouth. His hand faltered once or twice, trying to find a hold, before he managed to steady himself, and struggled to pull himself back up to his feet.

"I said… _no_."

"Look, the killings have stopped…"

"But you left the angel alive! For all you know, he could have resumed killing the moment you left town."

"No, Cas took care of it. The angel's back in Heaven and being kept there until he's no longer a danger."

"And you're willing to just accept that, without verification. How can you possibly just _trust_ your angel to choose your side over that of his own angelic brother?" Ketch's tone was one of utter contempt.

Dean sat back in his seat, a tight, cold smile on his lips. "If you _knew_ my angel," he replied with supreme confidence. "You'd understand why that's a ridiculous question."

Sam remained mostly quiet throughout the exchange, just listening as Dean and Ketch went back and forth, arguing over the way the case had been handled. He glanced at his watch, beginning to feel a little uneasy. It seemed like Mick had been gone too long to simply be putting away the camera.

"Look, you said we could work the cases our way," he pointed out. "That's part of the deal, right?"

"As long as you actually get the job _done_ ," Ketch argued, his voice taut with frustration.

"People aren't dying anymore," Dean pointed out, equally frustrated, "and the angel's not even on this planet. In what way is the job not done?"

Sam frowned as he glanced out into the empty war room. The hunter who'd acknowledged them as they entered was no longer there. Sam hadn't recognized him, was fairly certain they'd never met, but assumed he must be a new American recruit to the Brits' cause. So their deal was already paying off for Ketch, apparently – an idea that made Sam feel a little uneasy. Until Ketch was removed from his position, he didn't really want to get many other hunters involved with the British Men of Letters.

 _He seemed pretty at home here, though… maybe he was already recruited, before me…_

"This is going to be extremely difficult to explain to the elders," Ketch complained. "They're not going to be pleased with this departure from your orders…"

"Your problem, not ours," Dean pointed out with a shrug.

Sam barely listened as they bickered back and forth, his mind increasingly uneasy the longer Mick stayed gone. Mick's behavior had been a little off, he thought. He'd gone very quickly from sleepy and calm in the backseat of the Impala, to shaky and pale in the parking bay. Sam knew he had to put on an act for Ketch, and Mick had proven himself to be a pretty convincing actor – but it hadn't seemed like an act to Sam, at all. Mick had seemed pretty genuinely terrified, and Ketch had been nowhere close to witness it.

 _It was right when we parked…_ Sam remembered. _Next to that red truck… probably belongs to the dude that was just sitting there… who seemed right at home here, been working with Ketch for a while…_

The pieces abruptly clicked into place in Sam's mind, and his stomach lurched as all at once, Mick's reaction made a terrible kind of sense. He rose to his feet without a word and headed back out into the conference room.

"We're not finished here, Sam," Ketch called after him, voice sharp.

"The hell we aren't," Sam muttered, heading down the hall toward the supply area he remembered from his tour of the compound. "Mick?" He raised his voice as he hurried his pace. "Where are you?" He heard Dean and Ketch following him, calling after him, but he paid them no mind until he stopped outside the locked supply room door, trying in vain to pull it open. It wouldn't budge without the use of a key card.

"Sam, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Ketch demanded.

Dean's voice was lower, soft with concern, as he moved in close at Sam's side, carefully studying his brother's face. "Sammy?"

"Get this open." Sam turned on Ketch. "Now."

Ketch squared his shoulders, indignant. "Now see here, Winchester, I don't know how you're used to doing things but you don't give _me_ orders…"

"Fine." Sam snapped, reaching out to snatch the key card attached to Ketch's shirt and slide it through the lock, ignoring Ketch's protests as he pushed the door open and entered the room, Ketch and Dean both following close behind him.

He stopped short for a moment, stunned and horrified by the scene playing out in front of him. Mick was on his knees with his back against the far wall, facing Sam – but his panicked eyes were locked onto the man in front of him, who held him by the throat with one huge, meaty hand. Mick was struggling to pull the man's hand away, but his movements were weak and futile, as if he'd been fighting for a while with no air. As Sam watched his hands fell away, eyes drifting closed as his body slumped against the wall. The man towering over him laughed.

"That's better, bitch," he sneered. "You don't have to be conscious to get fucked, do you?"

He didn't get any farther than that.

Sam was across the room in an instant, grabbing the man and yanking him back, using the momentum to spin him around and deliver a powerful fist to his face.

The hunter staggered back, even as Sam surged forward, seizing the man's shirt and shoving him against the wall next to Mick. His eyes were wild and startled at Sam's unexpected attack. Sam grit his teeth, resisting the overwhelming impulse to pound the asshole's face in.

"You stay the hell away from him," he snarled, pinning the man with his gaze before glancing down, swallowing back the worry he felt at the sight of Mick's still form, slumped against the wall, unmoving. His fists clenched, one at his side and the other still clutching a handful of the hunter's shirt, as he wrestled for control of his own reactions.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" the other man demanded, indignant, looking between Sam and Ketch for a moment before grabbing Sam's wrist and wrenching it free of his shirt, trying to shove him away. "Ketch, what is this? We have a deal!"

Sam allowed himself to be pushed back only a step, trying to remain calm despite the rush of protective rage overwhelming him. He had to remember the long game, the deal – couldn't risk throwing everything away over his desire to beat the shit out of one worthless pervert. But he couldn't allow Mick to be hurt, either – had to make it indisputably clear that Mick was under his protection.

"Morgan…" Ketch began from just inside the door, holding up a warning hand as he carefully stepped further into the room. "Let me explain…"

"You _had_ a deal," Sam cut him off, deliberately moving into the hunter's eyeline, keeping his attention. "Now _I_ have a deal, and you have nothing. You're never gonna touch him again."

Beside the hunter – Morgan, Ketch had called him – Mick stirred, blinking heavily, starting to regain his senses. He looked up at Sam, his gaze disoriented for a moment before he tried to stand, falling back to his knees.

Morgan looked back toward Mick, vindictive anger in his eyes, and Sam gave him another shove to refocus his attention. "Don't even _look_ at him," he snarled.

"Sam?" Mick's voice was slurred a little, shaky and panicked, and Sam realized with a sharp sense of alarm that he might accidentally say something that would give them away.

"Stay down and shut up," Sam snapped at him.

Mick flinched, and Sam forced himself to ignore the pang of guilt he felt, the sting at the brief flash of hurt in Mick's eyes before he lowered his gaze, falling back against the wall, obediently still and quiet. Instead, Sam grabbed Morgan's shirt again and pulled him away from the wall, turning and shoving him toward Ketch, pointing an accusing finger as he demanded,

"You'd better handle this, before I do."

Ketch's eyes were wide, tension in every facet of his demeanor, as he swiftly moved forward and grasped Morgan's shoulder, steadying him and trying to gain his attention. "Morgan," he tried again, "we need to have a discussion. It's true, the – conditions of our arrangement have changed…"

"The hell you talking about, _changed_?" Morgan angrily shook Ketch's hand from his shoulder, spinning around to face him. "Sam Winchester waltzes in here and just gets to take whatever he wants?" His voice was shaking with outrage. He took a step toward Sam, then hesitated, his jaw clenched with frustration, glaring with hatred and resentment.

Sam _wished_ Morgan would come at him – but he knew he wouldn't. Sam was a far more imposing target than Mick – which was why Sam resisted the impulse to push the man farther. There was a good chance that Morgan might lash out, but not at Sam, and Sam wasn't willing to take that chance. It was better to allow Ketch to talk Morgan out of th room, and safely away from Mick.

"That's not the case, Morgan, no matter how it may seem," Ketch explained, his tone level and calming. "Please, come with me to my office. We'll discuss… alternative incentives."

Morgan glared at Sam a moment longer before reluctantly turning his gaze toward Ketch. "What kind of alternative incentives?" he asked, grudgingly curious.

"Just… please go to my office," Ketch requested with a tight smile. "I'll be right there, and I'll explain everything."

Morgan looked down at Mick with clear frustration. For a moment it looked as if he was considering aiming a kick at him, and Sam thought he might yet end up killing the man. But then Morgan seemed to consider that possibility as well, looking back toward Sam sullenly, before focusing his attention on Ketch.

"Better be some damn good incentives," he muttered, giving Sam one last glare before shoulder-checking Ketch on his way out the door. "Putting up with this bullshit…"

Ketch closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw clenched with anger, but he just drew in a deep breath before giving Sam a tight smile. "My apologies, Sam," he sighed. "I'll handle Morgan. Just – take him and go," he waved a hand toward Mick. "Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. Best if he's not here while I – _renegotiate_ with Mr. Morgan."

Sam's fist clenched at his side, fury rising within him at Ketch's dismissive demeanor. "Oh, we're going," he declared, trying to control the anger in his tone. The important thing right now was getting Mick out of here safely. Sam looked to his brother, who was eyeing him with an unsettling amount of worry. "Go get the car."

Dean nodded wordlessly, still watching Sam for a moment as he headed toward the door, before turning when he reached it and heading down the hall toward the parking bay.

"My apologies again, Sam," Ketch offered, as he turned to follow Morgan toward his office. He stopped at the door, giving Sam a severe look. "I've made my position clear regarding the case you've just concluded – unsatisfactorily, as far as I'm concerned – and there's nothing more to discuss for the moment. Don't let it happen again."

Sam's jaw clenched, his fist twitching at his side as he struggled to rein in his outrage at Ketch's behavior – as if the way he and Dean had handled the case was _even close_ to the real problem here.

"Don't let _this_ happen again," he snapped. "If that son of a bitch lays a hand on Mick again, I'll kill him. You go have that talk with him, and you explain _that_."

Ketch's eyes narrowed slightly, and Sam felt a brief flare of alarm as he realized that he was showing his hand a bit more than he'd intended. He reminded himself that he wanted to appear not concerned, but insulted. Not protective, but possessive. He put a cold smile on his face, moving in closer to Ketch, gratified when Ketch swallowed and took a single step back, though his expression didn't change.

"He belongs to _me_. That's the deal. You think I wanna take him home and fuck him looking like everybody else's already had their turn? _That_ …" Sam pointed down at Mick's battered face, not allowing himself to show any reaction as Mick flinched, then buried his face in his folded arms. "… is unacceptable. If _anything_ else happens to him on your watch, Ketch – I'll walk. Don't think I won't."

"I understand." Ketch's tone was terse and impatient, but quiet, carefully nonconfrontational. "I'll handle it."

He left the room without another word, and Sam turned his attention toward Mick.

Mick, who was bleeding on the floor, shaking and scared, when Sam had told him, had fucking _promised_ him that he'd keep this from happening to him again. Sam's anger faded into guilt and sorrow, as he crouched down in front of Mick, reaching out to take his arms and pull him to his feet. His heart ached when Mick flinched away from him.

"Shh, it's all right." Sam kept his voice low and calm. "It's over, you're okay…"

Mick met Sam's eyes, his own red and wet with tears, but intent and urgent as he whispered under his breath, a single word.

" _Cameras_."

Sam nodded just a little, resisting the temptation to look around the room before grabbing Mick's arm, more roughly than he wanted to, and hauling him toward the door. Mick stumbled a little at Sam's fast pace, but Sam kept him on his feet, dragging him past Ketch's office and toward the car. He opened the door and let go, allowing Mick to get into the back seat and close the door on his own, before walking around the car and getting in next to Dean.

He waited until they were out of sight of the compound before turning in his seat. Mick was still seated much as he had been during Sam's confrontation with Ketch – his knees drawn up on the seat beside him, arms folded around them. Sam reached out to touch his arm, and Mick flinched away.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked softly. "How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm not." Mick shook his head, his voice hoarse and quiet, and Sam winced, remembering how Morgan had choked him. Mick's eyes stayed focused on his own knees as he added, "I'm all right." A moment later, he repeated it, in a whisper, emphatic, as if trying to convince himself. "I'm all right…"

Sam couldn't miss the pointed looks Dean kept sending in his direction, so he sent him one back that he hoped clearly said, " _Not now, wait 'til we get home_."

Apparently the message came across reasonably well, because Dean remained silent until they reached the bunker. Mick stayed silent too, huddled in the backseat as if trying to make himself invisible. When they got home, Sam opened the back door of the Impala, waiting for Mick to get out and following him inside before instructing him to go to his room and get cleaned up.

"I'll be there in a few minutes to talk about what happened."

Mick looked stricken, pale, and nodded hurriedly. "Yes," he whispered. "Okay."

Dean watched Mick go with dark, troubled eyes before turning toward Sam, his demeanor inexplicably accusing, demanding in a hushed, urgent tone, "What the fuck was that?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I guess Morgan got the same deal as me – before I got it. I thought it was a one-time thing, but – I guess not, and I guess Ketch neglected to tell him things had changed."

"Yeah, I got that much," Dean replied, pouring himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey on the small table in the corner of the library. Then he poured a second glass and set it down in front of Sam, before sinking down into a chair at the table. "What I'm talking about is Harry Potter in there, fucking shutting down like he thinks you're gonna beat the shit out of him for – getting the shit beat out of him." He sighed, shaking his head. "Sam, this – might be a little above our pay grade."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam conceded, sitting down beside Dean. Nothing Dean had said was anything he hadn't already considered. "But – whose pay grade is it?"

Dean looked away with a heavy sigh.

"What kind of therapist or hospital is equipped to deal with someone who's seen the things Mick's seen? He opens his mouth just once with the truth and they'll keep him locked away for the rest of his life. Can't deal with it legally. Any ordinary authorities that go up against the Brits won't know what they're getting into. They'll wind up dead."

"So it's on us, now. We've gotta handle it, because no one else can," Dean surmised, sounding deeply unhappy about it.

"It's on _me_ ," Sam corrected softly, feeling the weight of the words settle onto his shoulders as he spoke them, leaning forward and resting his head in one hand. "Because I told him I'd help him. Because – he hasn't got anyone else. He's just got me."

Dean considered that for a moment, swirling the remains of his drink around in his glass before raising it to his lips and emptying it, and then standing up. "Well," he concluded, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder for a moment before continuing back to the bottle. "I guess, then, it's a good thing you've got me."

Sam turned in his seat to look at Dean, surprised and relieved by the words. Dean poured his second glass before turning to face Sam, leaning against the small table where the bottle was kept.

"I can't guarantee I'll help with this, really, Sam. I mean, you probably don't want me to, anyway. I'll say the wrong thing and fuck him up even worse. You feel like you gotta be there for him? Fine, I get it." He paused, taking a sip of his second drink before meeting Sam's eyes and stating firmly, "I'm here for _you_."

Sam felt a lump form in his throat, a warm reassurance steal over him with Dean's words. His voice was a little husky as he replied, soft and sincere, "Thanks, Dean."

He finished the drink Dean had placed in front of him, took a deep, steadying breath, then rose and headed off to Mick's room. It wasn't fair to put it off any longer. He needed to find out if Mick was okay – and how much damage control he was going to have to do.

Mick paced the floor of his bedroom, his anxiety building with every moment that he waited for Sam. He'd already washed the blood from his split lip, wincing at the ring of dark purple already forming around his neck where Morgan had choked him. It was easier to focus on his injuries than to meet his own eyes in the mirror – an inescapable reflection of his own weakness and inadequacy.

Sam's harsh command still echoed in Mick's ears, the stinging humiliation of his cruel words, filled with such disgust and anger. And Mick couldn't blame Sam for being disgusted with him; he was utterly disgusted with himself.

 _But… Sam_ had _to say those things… he had to so that Ketch would believe it…_

It was as they'd discussed – Ketch had to buy it, which meant that Sam had to _sell_ it. It was foolish to be hurt by words that Sam had only spoken while trying to protect him – and yet Mick cringed as he thought of the way Sam had looked at him, the way he'd spoken about him as if he was nothing more than a pretty toy – but a _broken_ , unsatisfactory toy.

Sam had spoken as if he wasn't angry that Mick was hurt; he was angry that someone else had damaged his property – as if it was his right and his alone to hurt Mick, and he was only angry because his rights had been violated.

 _It was just an act… he didn't mean it, had to put on a good show… why would he have the angel heal you if he just wanted to hurt you himself?_

He'd have kept Mick weak, broken, like Ketch had done. Sam didn't seem to want him broken, though; he kept trying to make him stronger, kept trying to build him up. He'd talked about fucking Mick, wanting him all to himself, and he hadn't done that, wasn't going to, which meant it _had_ to be an act – didn't it?

 _An easy act this time, had to be, walking in and seeing you on your knees for Morgan – weak and damaged and disgusting, not half worthy of all the trouble he's been going to…_

 _Didn't have to fake the anger, either, I'd wager… because now he knows you've been lying, knows Morgan didn't just fuck you once, but over and over again… knows you lied when you said everything was fine… he tries to help you, and all you pay him back with is lies and failure. Don't deserve it, not even for a second… and he knows it now…_

Mick sat down on the edge of his bed, covering his face with his hands and desperately trying to catch the breath his panic was taking from him.

It was over.

Sam was going to come into Mick's room – _not yours, not anymore, ungrateful, worthless little whore_ – and he was going to tell him to just go back to Ketch, he wasn't worth the trouble anymore. Or maybe he'd just punish Mick himself, for his half-truths and half-hearted, weak cooperation with Sam's sincere efforts to protect him.

It didn't matter. Either way, Mick had just begun to feel safe, to feel like maybe there was a _chance_ for him – and that was over now.

There was a light knock on his bedroom door, and Mick's heart plummeted. His mouth went dry. He stood, turning toward the door to face the consequences of his failure, before he swallowed hard, and managed to get out a quiet, hoarse, "Come in."

Sam opened the door and stepped inside, closing it most of the way behind him, but leaving it open a crack. It took a great effort for Mick to raise his eyes to Sam's face. Sam's usual encouraging smile was absent. His expression was solemn and troubled. Mick tried to hold his gaze, but his eyes faltered as Sam started toward him.

"Are you all right?"

Sam's voice was gentle, softer than Mick had expected. He opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't seem to find words. He just swallowed hard, closing his eyes.

Sam sighed as he reached Mick, reaching out to place his strong, warm hands on Mick's arms – careful, steadying, slowly enough that Mick could see what he was going to do before he did it – and Mick was startled by his genuine gentleness. Ketch's touches were deceptive, suggestively gentle and then suddenly brutal, designed to keep him off balance and reinforce his utter lack of power, his total helplessness.

But _Sam_ – Sam didn't _want_ him to feel helpless and scared. Sam wanted him to know what to expect. Mick had expected anger and violence, retaliation for the mess he'd made of their visit to headquarters – but Sam asked him if he was all right, touched him with warm, reassuring hands that could have broken him effortlessly – and somehow made him feel safe for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Mick was abruptly overcome with relief and gratitude and shame, all mingled in a confusing, overwhelming tumult of overpowering emotion. He knew he didn't deserve Sam's careful kindness, and suddenly all he wanted to do was to fold to his knees, to beg Sam to forgive his failure and ingratitude and give him another chance to earn his place here. But Sam's hands were holding him up, and he couldn't speak past the knot in his throat.

"No, of course you're not all right," Sam concluded softly. "Dumb question, huh? Come here, let's sit down. We need to talk about what just happened."

Sam led Mick toward the bed, and Mick responded to the gentle pressure of his guiding hands, sitting down on the end of the bed as Sam sat down beside him.

"I didn't mean to scare you, back at headquarters," Sam began. "I'm sorry. I had to put on a good show for Ketch, but – I said some really shitty things. You know I didn't mean them, right?"

Mick nodded, though his face was hot with shame. Whether or not Sam meant them had no bearing on whether or not they were true.

"No," Sam said softly, letting out a heavy sigh. "How would you know? _Mick_ …" The quiet urgency in Sam's tone told Mick he wanted him to look at him, but he couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes above Sam's knees. "I _didn't mean_ them. I truly didn't. I told you to stay down, to stay quiet, because – I was afraid you would get hurt worse, or – or blow our cover. You'd just taken a hit, and – you weren't quite in control, so – I just did the only thing I could think of to make sure neither of those things happened," Sam explained. "I know it was harsh, though, and I'm sorry."

Mick shrugged slightly, his right hand circling his left wrist, fidgeting anxiously. "S'all right," he said quietly. "You did what you had to. I – I knew you weren't going to hurt me."

It wasn't quite the truth, but it wasn't quite a lie, either – and if Sam knew that, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead he was quiet for a moment, before changing the subject to one even more difficult for Mick to talk about.

"So… that was the guy. The one you told me about."

Mick nodded, his stomach clenching painfully with dread. "Morgan," he whispered.

"Yeah." Sam's voice was soft, cautious. "I thought – it just happened one time. But – that's not how he was talking. He got – the same deal I did, didn't he? Whenever he wanted."

Mick swallowed slowly, dragging his gaze up as far as Sam's collar, but still unable to make eye contact. He nodded again. "Yeah."

Sam was quiet a moment before continuing, "And – you knew he was there when we got there. You were freaked out, but – you told me nothing was wrong."

Mick nodded. "I'm sorry," he choked out, closing his eyes against the hot tears that burned behind them.

Sam was quiet for a moment. His hand reached out to gently rest over Mick's, where it held his wrist, stilling his fidgeting and focusing his attention, before he asked softly, "What are you sorry for?"

It was a valid question, with so many answers. Mick's mind was full of them, a confusing tangle of shame and regret that he couldn't find the words to voice.

 _For hiding things from you, for letting him touch me, for being too weak to stop him, too scared to tell you the truth, too useless to ever be worth all the effort you're putting into saving me when I don't deserve it, couldn't ever deserve it…_

"For – lying to you," Mick answered at last. "I'm sorry," he pleaded. "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam considered for a moment, before answering quietly, "Except – you didn't, Mick. Not really. You never _said_ it was just one time. I assumed – which was dumb, and – you let me believe it. Which was – also dumb."

Sam's words were candid, but softly spoken, acknowledging Mick's mistake without condemning him for it, and Mick nodded, easily accepting Sam's judgment. Sam reached out a gentle hand to tilt Mick's face up toward him, and Mick forced himself to meet Sam's eyes. He knew it was what Sam expected, and it was the least respect that Sam deserved. Sam's eyes were sad and sympathetic, but also intent, searching, as he spoke slowly and clearly.

"I want to help you, Mick. I really do. But – I can't help you if I don't know what's really going on."

"I know," Mick whispered. "Please, don't – don't send me back…"

Sam's expression softened with sympathy, and he shook his head. "I won't," he promised. "Mick, that never crossed my mind. But – but you have to be honest with me. You have to tell me the truth. I would never have left you alone where he could get to you if I'd known…" Sam shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh. "You didn't do anything wrong. You haven't had any choices in all of this. It's not your fault if it's hard for you to trust me. It's _definitely_ not your fault, what he did. And – it's not your fault that I just made assumptions and thought I knew what was going on when I didn't. I – should've asked, and I didn't. But – I'm asking now."

Mick swallowed hard, his heart sinking as Sam asked the one question Mick was most afraid of answering.

"Is Morgan the only one?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Is Morgan the only one?"

The question was barely past Sam's lips before the answer was clear. One moment, Mick's expressive eyes were looking up toward Sam's – and the next, his head turned abruptly away, his shoulders tense and his gaze averted as he visibly closed himself off. Sam glanced down at Mick's fidgeting hands, the right one, as usual, twisting anxiously around his left wrist.

His heart sank. Mick had told him that there'd only been one other hunter who'd abused him, and Sam had, perhaps selfishly, allowed himself to believe him. It was clear now that he'd been terribly wrong. Who knew how many men Mick had been sold to – how many times he'd been used and violated, for the pleasure of some deviant hunter, and the benefit of Ketch's personal agenda?

Sam understood why Mick hadn't exactly been forthcoming – but that just compounded the problem. Sam had no way of knowing just how bad it really was, or what else Mick might be hiding from him. And yet, he hesitated to ask for details that had to be incredibly difficult for Mick to think about, let alone discuss. Mick had been through a kind of hell that few could comprehend, and Sam couldn't blame him for keeping his secrets.

Still – he had to try to get at those secrets, if he was going to be able to help Mick at all.

"Who was it?" he pressed gently, leaning in, lowering his head in an attempt to catch Mick's gaze. "Another hunter?"

Mick kept his eyes down, but he swallowed hard, then shook his head slowly.

Sam frowned, confused. Who else would Ketch be selling Mick to, besides other American hunters? "A – a man of letters?" he suggested, though that didn't seem likely to him.

But Mick closed his eyes, going very quiet and still. His shoulders were taut, drawn in on himself as if he wanted to hide, and Sam could feel the fine tremor that passed through him, where his hand rested against Mick's wrist. It seemed that he might have hit on something close to the truth. Still, Sam hesitated. He didn't want to push too hard; Mick had had far too many choices taken from him already. But Sam worried that allowing Mick to keep his silence would be leaving him at the mercy of his abusers.

Sam drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, before reaching out to gently tilt Mick's face up toward his again. Mick reluctantly looked up to meet his eyes, sheer dread on his face.

"I need you to talk to me," Sam stated softly. "Mick – I'm not going to be angry with you, no matter what you tell me. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear, I'm going to do everything I can to help you, to protect you. But – I can't protect you if I don't know who to protect you from!"

Mick swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment before looking up at Sam again. "I know," he admitted in a hoarse, miserable whisper.

"I know it's hard. I know you're scared. But Mick – can you _try_ to trust me?" Sam pleaded. "Please – tell me the truth. If I know who's hurting you, then I can protect you, I can make sure they can't do it again. I can help you… if you'll _let me_."

Sam watched the spark of hope in Mick's eyes, watched it war with his fears as Mick searched Sam's face. Finally, Mick swallowed hard, his jaw setting, and he nodded slowly. "Yeah," he whispered. "Okay."

Relief flowed through Sam, and he gave Mick an encouraging smile, nodding along with him. "Good. That's good. Thank you." He was quiet for a moment, giving Mick a breath in which to gather his courage, before asking again, "Who else, Mick? Who else did Ketch let… hurt you? Besides Morgan?"

Mick opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated. His gaze faltered, and he stared down at his worrying hands in his lap. Finally he spoke, his voice hushed and halting. "Just Morgan. He – didn't let anyone else."

Sam's heart sank. He sighed. "Mick…"

"I suppose he… mostly wanted to just… keep me to himself."

Sam stared at Mick for a long moment, understanding slowly dawning, along with a creeping sense of horror – and an intense frustration with himself, for not having realized the obvious truth sooner. Sam thought back to that first night when Ketch had brought Mick to the bunker – the way he'd moved in close to Mick, smiling with pleasure at his fear, bragging about how beautifully broken he was, and what a sweet, submissive little slave he'd become. Frustration became swiftly mounting fury, both at Ketch and at himself.

Sam didn't know how he could have possibly missed it.

He felt Mick's wrist jerk slightly under his hand, and realized with alarm that his grip had tightened unconsciously. Sam swiftly let go, rising to his feet and moving away a bit, just trying to place a bit of distance between Mick and his own anger. Mick looked up at him with worried eyes that tracked Sam's agitated pacing for a few moments before looking away, his shoulders falling, his right hand twisting anxiously around his formerly damaged left wrist.

Sam saw how his anger was affecting Mick, and drew in a deep, shaky breath, turning away and running a hand down over his face, wrestling to rein in his emotions and regain control.

"Since the deal?" he asked at last, turning back toward Mick but maintaining the distance between them.

"No," Mick replied, shaking his head. "He – hasn't since then. Thinks you'd know it if he did." He closed his eyes, lips parted but saying nothing for a moment, and Sam braced himself for another revelation. "But – while I was still – all bruised up and all…"

"He… raped you?" Sam's voice was low, carefully level, despite his mounting fury.

 _You told him you wouldn't let that happen… told him you'd protect him, and all this time… Ketch has been doing what he wants, torturing him, violating him while you were just too blind to see it…_

"No, no," Mick hurriedly clarified. "Not – not that, not since… but – he wanted me to know he could still – hurt me." Mick's voice was quiet, haunted, and the inexplicable shame Sam heard there made his heart ache. "He – he was careful to hit me – only where there were already bruises."

Sam's mind raced as he processed what Mick was telling him, pacing in front of the bedroom door, thinking back over the timing and putting the pieces together. He remembered Mick's reaction when Sam had examined his wrist… how terrified he'd been when under Ketch's orders to spy on the Winchesters, afraid both to obey Ketch, and to disobey him.

 _He's been so desperate and confused and scared to death this entire time… while you've been so ridiculously fucking confident… so sure the problem was already resolved… that Ketch wouldn't hurt him, because you fucking_ told him not to _._

 _You arrogant fucking asshole._

Sam covered his face with his hand for a moment before turning back toward Mick. "I'm so sorry. I – I didn't think..." Guilt choked off his words, and suddenly he was the one having trouble making eye contact as he spoke. "How does he think he can he _get away_ with this?" Sam shook his head, frustrated. "Doesn't he care at all about keeping his position? I mean – if you were to say something to his superiors…"

A soft, bitter laugh escaped Mick's lips, and he shook his head, looking up at Sam, smiling through tears. "He knows I won't."

"Except that you're _going to_ ," Sam pointed out. "I mean, not until we have enough evidence, but still…"

Mick looked down again, shrugging slightly. "Perhaps he thinks… they wouldn't care."

Sam watched him closely, stunned by the appalling suggestion. It wasn't as if it hadn't crossed his mind; but for Mick to so quietly, casually accept it, as if he didn't deserve the protection of the organization to which he'd committed his entire life, was horrifying. Mick just stared down at his lap, a tear falling down to slide over his trembling hand.

"I – I deserve to be punished," he explained, and Sam's heart clenched in his chest at the awful, shameful conviction in Mick's voice. "I – failed in my duties. I got my entire team _killed_ , I – I _deserve_ …"

" _No_." Sam swiftly closed the distance between them, crouching down in front of Mick and reaching out to cover Mick's hands with his own. Mick flinched a little at Sam's sharp tone, and Sam lowered his voice, but kept his words firm and certain. "No. No matter how you might have messed up, Mick – you don't deserve this. You do not deserve to be – raped and abused. Even if it was your fault – and it wasn't."

Sam tried to catch Mick's gaze, but he kept his eyes shut, shaking his head a little, rejecting the absolution Sam offered.

"What, because no one thought that you might have to face an outside attack, or made any preparations for it? _No one_ did, Mick. How is that all on you? I was _there_ ," Sam reminded him. "I saw what happened – and you did everything you could in an impossible situation. You weren't prepared. That doesn't mean that you deserve to be hurt – not like this. Not – not what _Ketch_ …" Sam's jaw clenched, and he shut his eyes, trying to maintain control. "What the fuck gives him the right…"

"He's my commanding officer now," Mick argued, his voice shaking, a defensive edge to his words. "He has _all_ the rights. They told me to – to serve him in any way he deems necessary. He says I – I belong to him, so…"

" _No_." Sam cut him off, his voice shaking with outrage, his hands unconsciously tightening around Mick's as he spoke. "You don't. You do _not_ belong to him."

"N-no, of course not," Mick hurriedly corrected, trembling and apologetic, shrinking back a little but not daring to pull his hands away. "No, because I'm yours, I belong to _you_ now, I know…"

Sam was appalled. Eyes wide, aghast, he shook his head, easing his hands over Mick's, stroking his thumbs gently against his palms as he said softly, "That's not what I meant. Mick – you don't belong to _me_ , either." Mick flinched a little, and Sam winced, amending, "What I'm saying is – you're a _person_ , not a – possession. No one owns you. You don't _belong_ to anyone."

Mick was quiet, seemingly calmed enough by Sam's hushed, gentle tone that he could actually take in his words. He swallowed slowly. "I – never belonged to anyone, or anything – not 'til the Men of Letters. They – found me when I was starving on the street. Just a little lad, no good for anything but picking pockets and causing mischief – and still they took me in. Gave me food, and clothes, and a place to sleep, and – and training, and education, and – they made something of me. I was nothing, and…" Mick stopped, closing his eyes, blinking back tears. "They did so much for me. Gave me everything, and I – I'm just a disappointment to them. Took what they gave me and then… let them down."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, before observing softly, "That's not the way it looks from here."

Mick looked up at him, uncertain.

"If they've been so good to you," Sam continued, holding Mick's gaze. "If they're so – generous and benevolent, if you've truly found a place there – then why can't you ask for their help now? Why would they let Ketch do what he's been doing? It doesn't look like they're the ones getting used and let down, Mick. Not to me."

"It's not my place to question," Mick insisted, but the hurt and confusion in his eyes tore at Sam's heart. "They brought me from nothing. Anything they give me is – is more than I deserve. My place is to serve the Men of Letters. I – I belong to them." He looked down at the floor, swallowing hard, quiet and defeated as he admitted, "At least – I thought..."

Looking at Mick, Sam could very easily envision the little boy he had described a few minutes earlier – alone and scared, but a fighter even then, clever and resourceful enough to find ways of surviving – and yet naïve and trusting enough to allow himself to be taken by the hand and led right into the depths of hell, with the promise of food and safety – the promise to make him more than he was capable of being on his own.

Sam could well relate to that little boy.

Except – he'd never been _alone_.

Dean had always been there – looking out for him, making sure he never went hungry, never had to be afraid to go to sleep at night. And Dean hadn't ever made Sam feel like he owed him for it, like he had to be good enough or smart enough or _anything_ but exactly who he was. Their lives had been scary and uncertain. Hell, their lives had been a damn nightmare at times. But at least Sam had always had Dean.

Mick had never had anyone.

"You could have a place here." The words escaped Sam's lips before he knew he was going to speak. "You could _belong… here_."

Mick's eyes darted back up to Sam's, wide, startled – and touched with a trace of disbelieving hope. Sam's heart raced as he realized what it was he'd just offered. This wasn't the plan. The plan was to get rid of Ketch, to make the Men of Letters a safe place for Mick again, and then send him back to them.

But the longer this went on, the more Sam learned about Mick's history, the more he suspected that the problem went deeper than Ketch. Perhaps the British Men of Letters never had been a safe place for Mick. Perhaps the British Men of Letters as an organization _was_ the problem – and if that was the case, Sam didn't want Mick to go back to them, _ever_.

Sam knew that he should have talked to Dean about it first, should have considered the impact of his words before opening his mouth to make such an offer. But Mick's eyes were filled with longing, staring up at Sam as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, and Sam couldn't take the offer back, now that it was made.

He didn't want to.

"With me, and Dean, and Cas. Here at the bunker. Not like – something that I own, but – as one of us," Sam continued. His words felt clumsy and awkward at first, but gained clarity and strength as he began to visualize what it was he was offering to Mick – and to realize how much he actually wanted it, himself. "You could _belong here_ , Mick. If you wanted to. You could… work with us, hunt with us. I'd teach you how, and you'd never have to worry about getting hit, or – or hurt, if you make a mistake…"

The faintest ghost of a sad smile passed Mick's lips, and he reminded Sam softly, "I make a _lot_ of mistakes."

"We all make a lot of mistakes," Sam countered. "I've nearly ended the world a time or two. Beat that."

Mick's smile widened a little, tentative and unsure, but when he looked at Sam again, his eyes were cautiously hopeful. Sam rose from the floor and sat down on the end of the bed beside him, anticipation building as he considered the possibilities.

"The more you learn, the fewer mistakes you'll make. You can do good, _real_ good in the world, without being forced to work for assholes like Ketch, or – stripped of your basic human rights because some higher-up fucked up, and decided to make you their scapegoat. It's still dangerous, yeah – always is with hunting, but – it's _honest_ danger. Straight up, heat of battle, not – getting stabbed in the back by people who were supposed to protect you. You'd know the risks, and – and we'd have your back. You'd belong with us, Mick. With – with _me_."

Sam wasn't sure how Dean would feel about the scenario he was describing – but as it began to take shape in his mind, Sam realized that it felt right. He wanted to take Mick under his wing, to help him and teach him – to offer him the family he'd never had. The longing that built in Mick's eyes with every word Sam spoke only reaffirmed his own desire, and his own eyes welled when Mick whispered, aching and earnest, "I – I _want_ that. Very much."

Sam slid his hands up from Mick's hands to rest on his arms, soothing, protective, feeling a funny ache in his chest when Mick closed his eyes, his lips parting as he drew in a sharp, shaky breath. Sam swallowed hard.

"No one's going to hurt you like that, ever again," he promised, his words feeling thick and hoarse. "I promise. Do you believe me?"

Mick nodded, eyes still closed. "Yes."

"You have to tell me, okay? If Ketch, or anyone, tries – you have to tell me. I promise I'll protect you, Mick."

Mick nodded again, and Sam's breath caught in his throat when Mick's wide blue eyes turned up to meet his. "I know," he whispered. "I will, Sam."

"Good." Sam smiled, instinctively reaching up a hand to touch Mick's face, his heart quickening a bit when Mick closed his eyes and leaned into the touch a little. "That's good."

There was something desperate and yearning in Mick's expression, and Sam thought again of the story Mick had told him, of his childhood and how he'd come to join the Men of Letters. He wondered if Mick had ever experienced a single positive touch in his life – if he'd ever had anyone simply hold him, or hug him, or offer any kind of contact that wasn't intended to hurt or take or manipulate. The way he responded to Sam's touch – like a man simultaneously drowning and dying of thirst – told Sam that he likely hadn't. Instinct drove Sam to slide one arm back around Mick's shoulders, drawing him cautiously in closer.

"I'm not gonna hurt you… I don't want anything," Sam whispered. "Just to – to make you feel safe. Nothing else… I don't want… anything else, all right?"

Mick bit his lip, nodding his permission, and Sam carefully wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a warm, close hug. Mick tensed, but didn't pull away – and after a moment, Mick relaxed, lowering his head against Sam's shoulder, his body trembling as he allowed himself to rest in Sam's arms.

"It's all right," Sam whispered, raising one hand to cup the back of Mick's head as Mick's shoulders began to shake, and Sam felt the wet heat of tears begin to soak through the soft cotton of his shirt. "You're safe now. It's all right."

Mick didn't remember his own mother and father. His earliest memory was of being slapped down in the street by a woman whose purse he'd tried to take when he was probably no older than five. His memories of Kendricks were clearer, when he'd been just a little older – warmer, less hungry – but even there, nothing was given freely. He'd never experienced a compassionate touch simply for compassion's sake. He'd swiftly learned – any gentleness or kindness shown there was calculated, purposeful.

Everything had its price.

As long as he'd proven himself not only loyal, but useful, an asset to the Men of Letters, he'd been rewarded. But the moment he'd failed, his punishment had been breathtakingly brutal.

He couldn't see where he'd ever been an asset to Sam Winchester.

He'd failed, and lied, and put Sam into dangerous situations. Here he was even that very moment, falling apart, weeping like a child – quite clearly, without question an utter liability. And yet, Sam didn't turn away from him in disgust, or slap him down and tell him to pull himself together, or threaten him with punishment.

Sam wrapped him in arms that were strong enough to crush the life from him – but didn't. He spoke gentle words in his ear, soothing and reassuring, held him until he no longer felt like he was shaking apart from the inside out – and then let him go. He called Castiel in again to heal the damage Morgan had done, meeting his eyes with a warm smile and telling him to get some rest, and leaving him alone in peace – without taking a single thing from him.

A part of Mick felt deeply unsettled, waiting for Sam to reveal the price of his kindness. But – there hadn't been one so far. And Mick couldn't imagine what Sam might be waiting for, how it might be to his benefit to wait so long before revealing what it was that he truly wanted.

The only explanation was that… he already had.

Inexplicably, Sam didn't care about Mick's mistakes, his weaknesses. He didn't want to use his body or relish in his pain. He truly, genuinely just wanted to help him.

And Mick was deeply, desperately grateful.

Sam reluctantly drove him back to headquarters the next morning, and spent the entire drive reminding Mick to let him know if Ketch hurt him, threatened him, or basically even looked at him the wrong way at any point during the day.

"I know we've got a plan," Sam sighed. "I know it's a good one, but – it doesn't have to be the _only_ plan. If he keeps trying to find ways around it, ways of hurting you – we'll find another way."

"He won't," Mick assured Sam, almost sure of it himself. "Not if he can't hide it from you, and – he thinks you're seeing me naked on a regular basis. He won't hurt me again, not as long as the deal is in place."

Sam still seemed reluctant as he dropped Mick off and watched him go inside – and that alone made Mick feel safer, the fact that Sam cared enough to worry. Ketch was sitting at his desk in his office when Mick came in, and looked up with a pointedly raised eyebrow as Mick tentatively entered.

"You certainly caused a fair bit of trouble yesterday, didn't you?" Ketch's tone was disapproving, and Mick caught a note of suspicion that made his stomach a little uneasy.

"I didn't mean to," he answered, quiet and submissive. "I'm sorry."

As he spoke, he went to the filing cabinet and set to work on the stack that was waiting for him on top of it. If he could fill the long hours with tasks that would keep him busy until Sam came back for him – if he could just make it through the day – then he'd be back in the warmth and safety of the Winchesters' bunker, and far from Ketch's cold, appraising eyes. He glanced down at his watch, his heart sinking at the early hour it read.

Evening couldn't come soon enough.

"I suppose it couldn't have been helped," Ketch admitted with a careless little shrug. "Morgan's a crass, foolish ass, and quite honestly, it was satisfying to see Sam Winchester knock him silly."

Mick allowed himself a slight smile in response, though he watched Ketch warily out of the corner of his eye as he worked. It wasn't like Ketch to backtrack on an accusation, or generally to admit that anything at all _wasn't_ Mick's fault.

"Morgan deserved what he got," Ketch concluded, sipping from the cup of tea on his desk. "Still," he continued after a pause, his voice deceptively casual, his piercing gaze locked onto Mick, studying him a little too closely. "… he tells me you _fought_ him."

Mick froze. There it was.

He drew in a slow breath, remaining outwardly calm, despite his rising apprehension. He nodded, looking up to meet Ketch's eyes. "I felt I had to," he explained quietly. "I knew Sam would be angry if Morgan – succeeded in what he was attempting. I was – trying to protect the arrangement with the Winchesters."

Ketch's eyes narrowed. "How very selfless of you," he remarked. "It would have been rather convenient for you if Morgan had managed to get Sam to abandon the deal, wouldn't it? Sam Winchester's far worse than Morgan – isn't he?"

Mick felt a cold, prickling fear at the back of his neck with the realization that Ketch was suspicious – which meant that somehow, either he or Sam had done something to make him wonder as to the true nature of their interactions.

Mick looked down, going still, allowing the shame of the abuses he'd experienced to come to the fore. "You know he is," he replied, hushed and embarrassed, softly reproachful. "But – my loyalty is to the Men of Letters, no matter what you may think of me. They want the Winchesters. So – if I can preserve our relationship with them, I'm going to. Even if that means that I – must continue to subject myself to a – a sadistic monster like _Sam Winchester_."

Mick spit out Sam's name in a voice that trembled with resentment and disgust – but it was so ridiculous that he had to resist the urge to laugh. He could still feel the warm, rough brush of Sam's hands over his skin, so careful and gentle it made him _ache_ inside. He wanted to be back with Sam right now, instead of playing this dangerous game with the man who was _truly_ the most sadistic monster he'd ever encountered.

"If we lose Morgan, we lose one hunter," he pointed out. He swallowed slowly, feeling the weight of his words in a way he hoped Ketch couldn't perceive, as he concluded quietly, "If we lose Sam – we lose everything."

"Yes, well – you're nothing if not loyal, I'll give you that," Ketch conceded with a small smile. He was quiet for a moment before continuing, "For a… _sadistic monster_ , though – Sam seemed awfully concerned with your well-being, didn't he?"

Mick turned away a little, shaking his head. He made his tone resentful and bitter. "Just doesn't like others playing with his toys, is all."

"Hmm." Ketch nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he's up to something."

Mick looked up at Ketch, giving him a curious frown. "Such as what? I haven't seen any evidence to support that idea."

Ketch gave him an appraising look, but didn't answer, and Mick returned to his work. He pretended not to notice, but he was acutely aware of the way Ketch continued to study him. Awareness became sharp alarm as Ketch rose and came around his desk, slowly closing in on the spot where Mick stood. Abruptly Ketch grabbed his throat, pushing him back and holding him against the wall, and Mick gasped, his hands instinctively raised between them, his heart racing. Ketch slowly looked him up and down, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed.

"If you're lying to me, love," he said softly, "I'll find out. And you'll be _so desperately_ sorry."

"I'm not," Mick said, quiet and submissive, eyes downcast, not attempting to escape Ketch's loosely restrictive grip. "I wouldn't."

"Don't forget your true purpose in the Winchesters' bunker, and it's not to be Sam Winchester's favorite fuck toy," Ketch sneered, cruel satisfaction in his eyes when Mick flinched a little. "You're to be taking notice of anything that goes on there that might be of importance to me."

"I know," Mick whispered, nodding as much as he could manage with Ketch's hand at his throat. "I am, I promise… it's only been a few days…"

"I don't trust Sam, or his brother," Ketch continued. "They clearly don't trust us, either. If they're working against us in any way, I need to know about it."

"Yes, of course," Mick agreed, anxious and eager. "As you say…"

"They're already creating a problem, insisting on doing things their own way regardless of the orders given them. If the other hunters start to hear of it, or God forbid the Council of Elders…" Ketch's lips pursed with displeasure at the thought, and he shook his head. "The lengths I've gone to, to get the Winchesters on board in the first place, the risk I've taken – I'm not even certain it will prove to be worth it in the end, for all the trouble they're causing."

It was the first hint of verbal confirmation Mick had heard from Ketch that the elders were unaware of Ketch's recent activities, and that they might not approve of his appalling abuses of power.

"The risk…" he suggested, slow and cautious, "… of exposure? The Old Men finding out about the deal you've made with Sam Winchester?"

Ketch simply raised an expectant, vaguely challenging eyebrow, waiting for Mick to go on.

"Which part?" Mick continued. "The part where the Winchesters get to work their cases however they wish, regardless of the dictates of the Code? Or the part where you resort to offering the sexual services of your subordinates as incentive?" The trace of a sly smile touched his lips. "I can see how either of those particular details might be a bit embarrassing, if the elders were to learn of it."

Ketch's mouth tightened into a thin, angry line, and he shoved Mick hard against the wall behind him, his fingers biting into Mick's neck, but still not quite tight enough to restrict his breathing. "Not 'my subordinates'," Ketch corrected with a cool smirk. "Just you… because it's my job to make sure you're useful to our cause. And you're hardly good for anything else, are you?"

Humiliation fueled Mick's anger, and he reached up and pushed Ketch's hand away. "Careful," he warned, his voice trembling with resentment, a smile on his lips that was almost defiant. "You'll leave a mark."

Startled, indignant, Ketch caught Mick's wrist and held it against the wall, wrapping a hand around his throat again, tighter than before, but a bit more carefully, fingers flat instead of digging sharply into soft, vulnerable flesh.

"You'd best watch the attitude you take with me, you useless slut," he snarled, and Mick shivered a little despite his anger. His mouth went dry as Ketch leaned in, so close that Mick could feel the heat of his breath against his skin. Mick could feel the restrained violence in Ketch's trembling hands, venom in his voice that made it clear how much Ketch truly wanted to tear into him, to make him _hurt_ in ways that only Ketch knew how.

 _But he won't hurt you… wouldn't risk jeopardizing the deal like that… surely he wouldn't…_

"You deserve a good thrashing right now to remind you of your place, you stupid little bitch. I'm restraining myself, for the good of the deal and the Men of Letters. But trust me when I say that I can only be pushed so far. And if you do push me past that point, love… no one… not heaven or hell or Sam Winchester or the Council of Elders themselves will be able to protect you from me, so you'd best keep your _fucking mouth shut…_ and show some respect. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir…" Mick nodded, his heart racing. He didn't have to fake the fear inspired by Ketch's speech. "Perfectly clear…"

Ketch released him abruptly, and Mick collapsed back against the wall, breathing hard, eyes carefully downcast.

"There are things it's best they don't know – things I have to do in order to fulfill our mission here, and no, they may not approve – but there's a reason they employ me, Mick – and it's because I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. As long as I get results… what they don't know won't harm them. In fact, it's far more likely to harm them if they _did_ know." He smiled, trailing the back of one hand down Mick's cheek, and Mick shivered, turning his face away. "Far more likely to harm _you_ , too."

"Yes, sir." Mick nodded again, one hand protectively resting over his throat. "I-I'm sorry. I won't – I won't say anything."

"See that you don't," Ketch snapped, then stalked away, his anger clear in every pace, and Mick knew that if it wasn't for the deal with Sam, Ketch wouldn't have left him standing.

He waited until he was sure Ketch was gone, before going down the hall to the relative privacy of his own tiny room, and closing the door behind him. He sat down on the bed, and reached into the inside of his pocket, taking out the cell phone Sam had given him that morning, and pressing the "stop" button to cease recording. He glanced toward the door, then turned down the volume, rewound the recording a bit, and pressed play.

"… _not heaven or hell or Sam Winchester or the Council of Elders themselves will be able to protect you from me, so you'd best keep your fucking mouth shut… and show some respect. Do I make myself clear?"_

A slow smile spread across Mick's face, along with a warm sense of satisfaction and triumph. He put the phone away and left his room to go about the rest of his day, and wait for evening when Sam would come to take him home.


	11. Chapter 11

"… _because I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. As long as I get results, what they don't know won't harm them. In fact, it's far more likely to harm them if they did know… far more likely to harm you, too..."_

Dean looked up from his laptop as Sam and Mick entered the library, Ketch's recorded voice playing from the phone in Mick's hand. The dark look of anger on Sam's face as he took in Ketch's threats was one Dean had seen many times before – usually right before Sam took the life of some monster or demon caught in the act of harming an innocent. The two men stopped at the far end of the table, and Sam reached out a hand to rest just below Mick's shoulder, concern in his eyes as he studied Mick's face.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No," Mick replied, though the smile on his lips was a little bright, a little forced. "In fact, he was rather careful _not_ to hurt me, actually. Empty threats, that's all."

Sam frowned. "Tell me if he does. I'll take care of it."

Sam's voice was firm, commanding, and yet touched with a note of tenderness that Dean rarely heard there. He studied his brother's face closely, taking note of the warmth, the protective affection in his eyes. Dean shifted his gaze to Mick in time to see him lower his eyes, self-conscious and a little shy, as he nodded and spoke quietly.

"I will. I – I know."

Dean knew that he wasn't imagining it; something was very different between his brother and the wayward Man of Letters he'd taken into his charge. And he was almost certain he would have noticed it, even if Sam hadn't told him about the conversation he'd had with Mick the night before, and the offer he'd made which Dean wasn't quite sure Sam would be able to keep, or _should_ keep.

" _All he needs is a chance, Dean… for someone just to give a damn, you know? He's been alone his entire life… he just needs someone…"_

" _And that someone has to be us?"_

 _Sam hesitated, glancing down at the floor for a moment, then looked back up at Dean with certainty in his eyes. "I – I think it has to be_ me _."_

"This is good." Sam's expression softened into a smile, and he squeezed Mick's shoulder gently as he took the cell phone and tucked it into his pocket. "This is just exactly the kind of evidence we need. It's a little vague to stand on its own, though. We're going to need more, but this is a great start. _You_ did great, Mick."

The way Mick responded to Sam's praise – eyes lit with pleasure, the anxious tension of his shoulders easing with relief – it touched something in Dean, something old and secret that he rarely allowed himself to think about. It felt familiar in a way that ached a little deep down, and suddenly Dean's mind was filled with memories of his father, and the early years of his training to become a hunter.

John Winchester's praise had been a rare gift, and Dean well remembered how good it had felt when he'd received it. The rush of confidence, the validation – but mostly the simple _relief_ , to have pleased his father, to have not been a disappointment.

He could see those same emotions etched across Mick's face now, as he gazed up at Dean's brother with adoring eyes.

" _He's got so much potential…"_

" _Yeah," Dean scoffed. "The potential to get us all killed every time we go out on a hunt…"_

" _That's not fair." There was a protective edge of anger to Sam's words. "You know he's improving already. He's smart, thinks fast under pressure, and even better, he_ wants _to learn. He wants to be a good hunter, Dean… he just needs somebody to teach him."_

Dean could see what Sam was talking about, though he was reluctant to admit it. Mick had been instrumental in figuring out their last case, and to hear Sam tell it, he'd played a key role in taking down the Alpha Vampire, too. And Dean had to acknowledge the steel will and cool head it had to have taken to face down Ketch in that recorded conversation – to deliberately provoke him, in order to goad him into saying something incriminating, knowing the kind of violence he was capable of.

There was one thing he had to give the little limey, even if he was a bit green – he was certainly no coward.

"Do you think you can get to the report he turned in to the council on that last case?" Sam asked Mick, drawing Dean's attention back to the situation at hand. "I'm sure he didn't give them the one you turned in; that one's saved and dated on my computer right now. If we can turn in both versions to his superiors, that'll prove he's been lying to them, keeping secrets."

"I can get it. It's on his computer, I'm sure." Mick nodded. "I just need to wait until he's busy somewhere else in the facility, and if I can work out his password…"

"Let's wait on that for now." Sam's brow furrowed slightly. "I think I can get you some software that will make the password a non-issue… but I'm more concerned about what happens if he walks in and catches you getting onto his computer. I think I have an idea. Just give me a couple days and we'll figure it out, but don't try to get that report by yourself. All right?"

"All right," Mick agreed immediately. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

"You're doing it." Sam assured him. "You're really convincing on that recording. Just keep doing what you're doing. We'll get there."

Mick opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated, looking away for a moment before admitting, "There – there may be a problem, though." He looked up at Sam again, biting the corner of his lip and wincing a little. "Sam – he's a bit suspicious, after – the incident with Morgan. Thinks – maybe you were a bit too concerned about my well-being. You might have to – to be a little more careful."

"So what you're really saying is, be a little more _mean_." Sam frowned, his voice heavy and troubled. "I might have to put on a better show next time we're there." He met Mick's eyes with concern. "Can you handle that?"

Mick bit his lip again, lowering his gaze, and then nodded. "I can. I – I know it's just an act. Whatever we have to do to convince him."

Sam shifted in closer to Mick, his hand raised to touch his face, and Mick dutifully met Sam's eyes again. "You know I won't hurt you."

Mick nodded again, holding Sam's gaze, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I know."

Dean studied them closely, the gratitude and trust in Mick's expression, the tender concern in Sam's touch and in his eyes. They were standing a little too close, without either of them seeming to realize it, and neither seemed to have noticed that there was anyone else in the room with them. All at once, Dean recognized exactly what it was that he was seeing. He'd experienced it for himself enough lately to know.

 _Oh, no, Sammy. Please, no…_

"Go get some rest," Sam instructed. "You've got to be worn out. I'll come get you when it's time to eat, okay?"

Mick immediately headed off to his room – so swiftly obedient, so eager to please Sam in any way that he could – and Sam actually turned to _watch_ him as he walked away. Dean kept his gaze trained steadily on Sam until Sam finally turned back around and noticed that he was being watched.

"Oh, hey, Dean."

Dean met Sam's eyes, silent and dubious. Sam blinked, a little taken aback, staring back at Dean for a long moment before he finally broke the silence.

" _What_?"

"Dude," Dean replied, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair a little. "You are so screwed."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam laughed a little, but it had a nervous quality to it, and Dean recognized it as further confirmation that he was most definitely not imagining things.

"You two are getting pretty – up close and personal there, aren't you?" Dean paused a moment before adding, carefully choosing his words, "I think maybe you're getting a little too – involved."

"It's nothing," Sam insisted, but a little too quickly, as if this _wasn't_ a new idea that Dean was just introducing to his mind. "So I'm a little protective…"

"And a little touchy-feely," Dean added pointedly.

"Come on, Dean," Sam objected with a little scoffing sound. "It's not like that. Mick needs some support right now. He needs – to _connect_ with someone. The only touching he's had from anyone in years is the bad kind. I just want him to get that he's safe here, that he's wanted, that – being touched can be a _good_ thing…"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure he's _definitely_ getting _that_."

"Dean." Sam flinched a little. "I wouldn't."

"I know you wouldn't," Dean conceded, quiet, all trace of teasing gone from his voice. "He would, though. In a heartbeat, if he thought it's what you wanted. The way he looks at you, the way he hangs on every word out of your mouth, like his next breath depends on it…" Sam glanced away, a little guilty, and Dean knew his brother knew what he was talking about. "… that's a problem."

"He's not used to making his own choices," Sam explained. "He's afraid he's going to piss me off, or make me change my mind about him staying here…" Sam's jaw set, and there was a stubborn note of challenge to his voice as he concluded quietly, "And I'm _not_ going to change my mind about him staying here, Dean."

"No one's asking you to," Dean replied. "I get it. Last night, yeah – I was a little thrown, and I still think you should have talked to me first, before offering to let him just – move in, indefinitely…"

"I didn't plan to…"

"I know, you told me," Dean acknowledged. "And I get it. From what you told me, I figure he needs to get out of that place, Ketch or no Ketch. And he's got nowhere and no one else. But – I'm not sure that's the only reason you've got for offering to let him move in here…"

Sam opened his mouth to protest, and Dean held up a hand in silent request for his brother to simply hear him out.

"I trust you, Sammy," Dean insisted. "Don't get me wrong. I know you've got only good intentions here. But – he was brought here to be your fucking _sex slave_ , okay? And – he just might think he still owes you something – might think he needs to earn his way in. So – you've just gotta be careful, all right? If anything like that – happens, between the two of you, it could be really fucking confusing for him." Dean paused before adding softly, "Could be really fucking confusing for both of you."

Sam was quiet for a moment, nodding once, slowly. "It won't," he insisted at last, his voice firm with quiet conviction. "I'm not blind, Dean. I see how it could… go terribly wrong. And I'm not going to let it. I didn't bring him here to – to take advantage of him. After everything he's been through, that's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

"I know."

Dean did know that his brother's intentions were pure. Sam really did want to help Mick – but Dean wasn't sure if that was _all_ Sam wanted. Not anymore. No, Sam wouldn't take advantage of Mick, wouldn't push anything on him that Mick didn't want. But if Mick _did_ want it, or think he wanted it – Dean wasn't so sure that Sam would be able to resist the allure of those pretty blue eyes looking up at him as if he were the source of Mick's next breath, the only one in his entire world who mattered.

Dean was no psychologist, but he had more experience than he wanted with the mental and emotional impact of trauma and abuse. He knew all too well how devastating a gentle touch could be, when all you'd felt for what seemed like an eternity was pain and degradation.

He knew that Mick had feelings for Sam already. He just couldn't tell if they were real or not.

Problem was – _Mick_ probably couldn't tell, either.

But Sam was right about one thing. The promise he'd put out there couldn't be taken back now. It'd be too cruel, to offer Mick a refuge, a sanctuary from the suffering he'd experienced, only to snatch it away a moment later.

Dean just had to hope that Sam knew what he was doing – and watch out for his little brother, as always… just in case he didn't.

"Well, I must say this report is far preferable to the last one."

Ketch was actually smiling, as he leafed through Mick's report, surveying the details of a newly completed case, while the Winchesters sat near him at the conference room table, waiting for his reaction. This case wasn't nearly as complex as the last one – a simple haunting, without the need for any difficult decisions. The Winchesters had dispatched the ghost easily, and Mick had even managed to be helpful, getting in a few well-aimed salt rounds that had kept the spirit at bay until the Winchesters could finish burning its bones.

They'd finished late the night before, and simply gone back to the bunker. Mick had emailed his report to Ketch, and the Winchesters had promised by phone to report in person the next morning. Of course, that meant that Mick had a full day ahead of him to be spent with Ketch – but he was feeling surprisingly unbothered by that. Ketch hadn't hurt him in over a week, and it was unlikely that he would do so now, as pleased as he seemed with their work on the case.

He'd immediately ordered Mick to begin his daily tasks while he discussed the case with the Winchesters – but Mick really didn't mind the dismissal. He found himself even humming a little as he swept the conference room floor, a few yards away from where Ketch and the Winchesters sat at the table. Ketch hadn't been hurting him, and Sam was pleased with him, and his presence here was merely temporary – just a few hours he would pass as quietly as possible, before returning home to the bunker with Sam. Mick felt satisfied, and peaceful, and almost… _happy_.

And then Morgan walked into the conference room.

He didn't acknowledge the Winchesters as he passed, going straight to Ketch and wordlessly taking the file he held out, before retreating to the far end of the conference table to peruse it. He glanced at Mick as he passed him, a nasty smile on his lips that made Mick shiver. Just that single passing glance, just Morgan's presence in the room at all, was enough to fill Mick's mind with vivid memories of their last encounter – and suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

He could feel Morgan's hands on him again, strong fingers wrapping around his throat and pressing tight until he couldn't get any air… rough, grasping hands shoving him up against the wall and tearing at his clothes… panic closing in on him, drowning him as he struggled uselessly to draw breath against the crushing weight in his chest, Morgan pinning him down, moving in closer…

" _Mick_."

Sam's voice penetrated the haze of memory that surrounded him, the smothering press of his panic shattered by his sharp, commanding tone. Mick looked up immediately. Sam's expression was one of cool anger, a tight smile on his lips as he looked down the table at Morgan, then met Mick's eyes, snapping his fingers and pointing down at the spot beside him.

Mick drew in a deep, shaky breath, unclenching his hands around the handle of the broom and setting it down in the corner, wiping his damp palms down the sides of his trousers as he obeyed. With every step – away from Morgan, past Ketch, toward _Sam_ – he felt the grip of his own panic slipping. Sam's focused attention meant that he was safe. Sam knew that Morgan was there, saw the effect of his presence on Mick. Sam would make sure that he was all right, that nothing could happen to him.

Sam would take care of him.

He moved around the table to the side Sam had indicated, so that Sam was between him and Morgan, between him and Ketch. Mick sat down on the edge of the seat next to Sam's, the anxious tremor of his shallow breaths slowing, steadying as he watched Sam closely and waited for further instructions.

Sam gave him an incredulous look, arching an eyebrow in disbelief, before grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and yanking him out of the seat and down to the floor, onto his knees. Mick bit back the little cry on his lips, lowering his gaze and flinching a little as Sam reached toward his head. He was more startled than scared; as violent as the gesture was, Sam hadn't actually hurt him.

 _He wouldn't… he has to be rougher, has to convince Ketch…_

 _Sam won't hurt me, he won't, it's all right… it's all right…_

A shiver passed through him as Sam's hand came to rest at the back of his head, but the touch was gentle, Sam's long fingers toying possessively with his hair. Sam's voice was soft, but with an edge of warning to it.

"That's better. That's where you belong, isn't it, sweetheart?"

Mick nodded, eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of Sam's hand stroking through his hair, slow and rhythmic… hypnotic. Mick swallowed hard. He wasn't afraid, not of Sam – but still, his mouth went dry. His pulse quickened at the pleasurable sensation of Sam's touch.

"Yes," he whispered, surprised at the fervency in his own voice, thick and hoarse.

On the cold, hard floor at Sam's feet, knees aching and heart pounding, he felt safer, calmer, than he'd felt on his feet. He couldn't see Morgan at all anymore, and knew that Morgan couldn't see him. He could hear Ketch's voice as he asked the Winchesters questions about the case, but it sounded muffled and far away – utterly disconnected from him. All he felt, all that seemed to be able to touch him, was Sam's hand, gentle and soothing. He allowed himself to focus on that, to shut everything else out.

Mick was vaguely aware as Morgan walked past them again, on his way out – but Morgan didn't matter to him anymore, not as long as Sam was touching him. As long as Sam was touching him, Mick knew that no one else could – not Morgan, not Ketch. He was safe.

All too soon, the conversation was over, and it was time for the Winchesters to leave for the day. Sam's hand drifted down to brush against Mick's throat, then tilted his chin up. Sam met his eyes with a teasing wink. "See you later, sweetheart. I've got some… _interesting_ ideas for you, tonight."

Mick shivered. Despite his knowledge that it was all part of the act, he found his mind drifting, wondering what sorts of ideas Sam might have when he looked at him, like this, on his knees. He swallowed hard, looking down as Sam moved away from him, headed toward the door.

"Get up and get over here," Ketch snapped at Mick.

Mick blinked, swallowed slowly, a dull, empty ache building in his chest with every step Sam took away from him. It was as if he'd been floating, somewhere half within a dream – and had suddenly been dropped, hard, back to the earth.

He rose to his feet, each step weighted and difficult, as he went to stand beside Ketch, eyes carefully lowered, posture subdued; Ketch was clearly irritated by Sam's little display, and while Mick was almost certain he wouldn't go so far as to actually hurt him, he forced himself to focus, to _wake up_ – because Sam was leaving in a matter of moments, and any semblance of safety Mick had would be walking out the door with him.

Sam laughed. "Take it easy, Ketch, I realize it's technically your turn as soon as we walked in the door." Sam's voice was patronizing, tauntingly placating. "Just didn't want that ass Morgan getting any ideas."

"No, it seems you've more than enough ideas for the both of you," Ketch snapped, but didn't argue the point any further. No, that would have kept Sam there longer, and he clearly couldn't wait for Sam to leave.

"Come on, Sam, let's hit the road." Dean rolled his eyes. "I've got better things to do with my day than watch you two wave your junk around. You're both hung like Clydesdales. Happy? Let's go."

Once the door closed behind Sam and Dean, Mick felt his apprehension rise again as Ketch slowly approached him, his attention coming into focus on Mick, intent, studying. Mick barely managed not to flinch as Ketch raised his hand – but all he did was to mimic Sam's gesture, touching Mick's chin and tilting his head up in silent instruction for Mick to meet his eyes. Mick didn't dare pull away, and managed with an effort to hold Ketch's gaze, though the piercing scrutiny made him want to look away.

"Sam must quite fancy that pretty face of yours," Ketch remarked at last. "He never seems to mark it up, does he?"

Mick swallowed hard, thinking quickly. "He does," he explained, quiet and careful. "Mark it up, I mean. But – I suppose you're right. He never wants the marks to stay long. Has his angel clean it up straightaway after."

"Odd," Ketch mused, taking that in. "In many ways, Sam Winchester is a mystery to me. I find myself… quite curious…" As he spoke, Ketch allowed his hand to trail down Mick's throat to the top button of his shirt, toying with it a bit but not quite unfastening it. "… just what sorts of things does a man like Sam enjoy?"

Mick's stomach lurched, sick with the memory of the kinds of things that _Ketch_ enjoyed. He looked down, brushing Ketch's hand away with his own and taking a step backward.

"I don't want to talk about it…"

Ketch caught the collar of his shirt and hauled him in close, turning them and pinning Mick's hips against the table. Ketch's free hand wrapped around Mick's waist, fingers sliding teasingly across the top edge of his belt. Mick tensed, his fist clenched at his side, but he bit his lip, stifling his protest, and kept still as Ketch shifted in, his larger body pressed close against Mick's so that he could feel just how much Ketch liked the thought of the things he imagined Sam did to him.

Ketch's eyes were hard and angry, but he was smiling, and his voice remained soft and controlled, not acknowledging Mick's resistance with his words. "You know, one of these nights," he mused, "I may just pay a visit to the Winchesters' bunker… slip in and see for myself."

Mick's heart plummeted.

Ketch had a key.

 _Of course_ Ketch had a key to the Winchesters' bunker. All Men of Letters leadership had access to any of the bunkers worldwide at all times. Somehow, he'd forgotten. He should have remembered; at any time, Ketch could have come in and surprised them, caught them in their act, and it all would have been over.

He was so foolish, so very stupid – because he'd allowed himself to start to think of the bunker as safety. But with the reminder that Ketch could enter any time he wanted, Mick felt that sense of safety shatter into a thousand jagged shards at his feet.

He wasn't safe. He'd never been safe.

None of them were.

"You know, if I'm careful and quiet," Ketch continued, his arm at Mick's waist sliding lower, his hand brushing lightly against Mick's ass, the other at his collar jerking him close again when Mick tried to pull away, "there are quite a few ways in which I could still… _enjoy_ you, without Sam ever knowing about it. You remember how creative I can be…" Ketch pressed a kiss against the side of Mick's throat, his hand at the back of his neck hard and forceful, not allowing him to retreat. "I might just pay you a little visit, after Sam's gone to sleep one of these nights. Would you like that, love?"

Mick bit his lip, his breath quickening, struggling to maintain control of his mounting fear. "Don't," he choked out. "Please…"

"Then don't _you_ forget who you truly belong to," Ketch countered softly, leaning in so that his lips were a breath from Mick's trembling mouth, "And I won't have to remind you. Right?"

Mick nodded, swallowing hard, eyes closed.

"Sam Winchester ordered you to his side, and you obeyed without question. Did exactly as you were told like an obedient little slut. And you _are_ an obedient little slut." Ketch's words were razor sharp, his fingers digging into the back of Mick's neck, shaking him slightly as he continued, "But you're _mine_. Not his. Sam Winchester is only your master when you're _not here_."

"Right," Mick whispered, nodding hurriedly. "Right, I understand. I'm sorry. He – ordered me to go to him, and I – I didn't know what to do. If I hadn't, he might have…"

"Might have what?" Ketch cut him off, his voice soft again, falsely sympathetic, his grip on Mick's neck easing to something closer to a caress. "Hurt you? You think I'd have allowed him to punish you for looking to _me_ for your orders instead of him?"

Mick shook his head, though he wasn't so sure of the answer. Ketch had given him over to Sam in the first place, hadn't he? He'd sat by and allowed Sam to do what he wanted during the meeting, and had been careful not to touch Mick until Sam had left. Ketch cared what Sam thought, what he did; he wanted to keep Sam happy.

But Sam wasn't here now.

"I'm sorry," Mick whispered. "I was – confused, I didn't know what to do. I – I do, now. Please, I'm sorry…"

"I'm going to step up my recruitment efforts," Ketch said as he released Mick and took a step back. "The sooner our association with Sam Winchester serves its purpose, the better."

Something in Ketch's tone, dark and purposeful, made Mick's stomach clench. "And… what happens then?" he asked softly, watching Ketch closely as he braced one hand on the table and slowly straightened. "What happens once Sam has… served his purpose?"

Ketch smiled – a nasty, malicious smile. "Then we'll no longer need him, and you can stop enduring his attentions every night, and things can go back to the way they're supposed to be."

"So… you'll break the arrangement… let him and his brother go their own way… once we've got most of the American hunters signed on." Mick had the sinking suspicion that that wasn't at all what Ketch meant. "Is that it?"

Ketch's smile faded, and he glared at Mick. "Get back to work," he ordered. "I have far too much work of my own around here to bother with your pointless questions."

Mick obeyed, setting about his daily tasks once more, but his earlier good mood was now a distant memory, replaced with a heaviness of heart that made every step wearying, every moment drag by interminably.

Ketch wanted to get rid of Sam.

For the moment, he was tolerating him, because he knew that the American hunters respected him and would follow his lead. Mick was grateful that so far, no one new had signed on since the Winchesters. The network of American hunters was vast and complicated, and Mick knew it could still take Ketch a while to accomplish his goal.

By then, hopefully, Mick and the Winchesters would have gathered enough evidence to get Ketch removed from his position for good.

But Mick couldn't shake the terrifying image from his mind, of Ketch slipping into the bunker in the middle of the night, to find them laughing and talking like the friends they'd swiftly become – to find him, asleep in own private bedroom, unharmed while Sam slept in his own room down the hall. Ketch would be furious if he learned he'd been deceived. Mick shivered at the thought of what Ketch would likely do to him, if that happened.

He could warn Sam that Ketch had a key and could get in anytime he wanted – but it wouldn't really do any good. Sam could, and probably would, confront Ketch and demand that he turn over the key, and Ketch might even hand it over, rather than risk losing Sam – but Ketch could always get a replacement from his superiors.

And then, he would _know_ that Mick had warned Sam. He would be angry, and would question Mick's reasons for helping Sam at all. It would risk their entire plan.

And _Sam_ would be angry that Mick had allowed him and Dean to be vulnerable to Ketch's invasion, had endangered their safety and privacy by not saying something sooner. He'd been so dishonest, so secretive already – there was no way Sam would believe that he'd simply _forgotten_ that Ketch had a key. It was too important a thing, too dangerous a detail to neglect.

 _You left Sam and Dean at risk, you failed in your duties once more, you pathetic fool… God, how could you be so bloody_ stupid _?_

The mental image of Sam's expression, if faced with yet another of Mick's monumental failures, made up Mick's mind. No, he decided. He wouldn't tell Sam about Ketch's threat. The potential danger of Sam confronting Ketch about it was frightening – but nowhere near as unsettling to Mick as the thought of Sam's anger and disappointment with him if he found out about yet another piece of information Mick had kept from him.

He would just have to find some other way to keep Ketch from finding out about their secret.

When Sam picked up Mick to bring him home that evening, Mick seemed quiet, distracted; but when Sam asked him about it, he insisted that he was just tired, and maybe a little bothered by seeing Morgan that day – but really, he was all right, just needed to get back to the bunker and away from Ketch and the British Men of Letters for a while.

Sam didn't push it. Dean and Cas were off somewhere together, so when Mick retreated to his room immediately after dinner, Sam followed suit. He chose a book from the endless stack on the library table and carried it to his own room, where he changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and settled on his bed, planning to read until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

He'd only been reading a few minutes when there was a very soft knock on his bedroom door.

"Come in," Sam called, setting the book aside as Mick opened the door, just a little at first, and then enough to slip inside.

Mick closed the door behind him – and then just stood there with his back against it, watching Sam with wide, worried eyes. He was barefoot, dressed in a pair of soft cotton pajama pants and a plain t-shirt, ready for bed, and it made him seem very young and very vulnerable. Sam smiled, trying to ease his tension, and scooted over on the bed a little, patting the spot beside him.

"C'mere," he said, more invitation than instruction.

Mick still said nothing as he hesitantly crossed the room and sat down on the edge of Sam's mattress, staring down at it and picking at a loose thread he found there.

"So – you going to tell me what's wrong, now?" Sam suggested. "This isn't 'just tired'. Talk to me."

"I – I wanted to ask you something," Mick said finally, still not looking at Sam. "It's – a little odd, and – and awkward, and – I'll understand if you say no, but…"

"That's the worst that'll happen," Sam assured him, sitting up and leaning forward to take Mick's hand, trying to ease his obvious apprehension. "You can ask me anything."

"Right." Mick nodded, drawing in a deep breath. "Right, so – I can't seem to – to fall asleep, in my room…"

Sam was pretty sure he understood. He gave Mick a sympathetic little grimace. "Morgan?"

Mick glanced up at him, hesitating a moment before looking down again and nodding. "Yeah. You – you really helped today, getting him – out of my line of sight, and – and distracting me, and – I can't thank you enough, Sam, for all you're doing, but – seeing him, today, it still – well, now I can't _stop_ seeing him, when I close my eyes…"

Sam's heart ached with sympathy at Mick's confession. He gently squeezed his hand, trying to offer what little comfort he could. After a moment, he asked simply, "What can I do?"

Mick swallowed hard, eyes still focused on the loose thread he was winding and unwinding around his finger, as he answered, halting and uncertain. "I was wondering if – if it might be all right…" He looked up at Sam, and Sam could see his apprehension as he blurted out the rest in a rush, "… if I slept in here tonight. Just for tonight. I – I'd just feel safer knowing you were close by, in case – if something happened…"

Sam felt his pulse quicken a bit at the mental image that filled his mind at Mick's request – Mick slipping under the blankets and into his bed, trusting and willing as Sam put his arms around him and pulled him in close, reassuring him that he would be safe throughout the night, that Sam would protect him.

And then his heart sank with the realization of just how much he _wanted_ that.

He'd had no choice about the part he'd had to play that day, at the British headquarters. It was for Ketch's benefit… but Sam could not deny that parts of it had felt good. There was a tremendous sense of satisfaction in seeing Mick kneeling at his feet – feeling Mick's panic recede as he relaxed under the touch of Sam's hand… knowing that he'd made Mick feel _safe_.

The idea of doing the same thing now – taking Mick into his arms and soothing away his panic… offering comfort and closeness and being rewarded with Mick's trust… it was a nearly intoxicating temptation.

This was just what Dean had warned him about.

He'd crossed lines, complicated things, when he'd made the offer to Mick to live there with him and Dean – not that he'd take it back, if he could – but now Mick was confused, and vulnerable. Sam couldn't be sure whether his request might be due to misplaced feelings, or the belief that he had to somehow pay Sam back for his help, but either way – it was too dangerous. It would send the wrong message to Mick, and it would impair Sam's judgment, and he couldn't allow it.

"Nothing's going to happen," Sam assured Mick softly. "Nothing and no one can get in here. You're safe. I know it's – it's hard, when you've got – things like that in your head, images and memories. Believe me, I've got those too. But – that's all they are. Morgan can't hurt you here, or Ketch, or anyone. You're completely safe as long as you're here."

Mick nodded. "I – I know that, in my head, but – but I still can't sleep, and – if I could – not be alone, just – be in the same _room_ – I'd sleep on the floor, Sam, not…"

"I don't think it's a good idea." Sam didn't really mean to cut Mick off, or to speak so abruptly, and didn't actually realize he had until he saw Mick flinch, and felt the wave of guilt wash over him at the hurt in Mick's eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered. "I just think – you've been through a lot. You haven't had any privacy, or space of your own, and – and now you do. That room is yours, and you can lock that door and no one, not even me, can get in there. No one."

Mick nodded, letting out a rush of breath, closing his eyes. "I know…"

"It's as safe as you could possibly be, and – I think you need to get used to – to having that space of your own, and your own – rights, and choices, and – I just think – maybe there are some lines that – we shouldn't cross right now. You know?"

Mick swallowed slowly. "I wasn't – trying to – to cross any…" He shook his head, rolling his eyes and wincing a little in embarrassment as he rose from the bed. "I'm sorry…"

"Don't be." Sam leaned forward, holding onto Mick's hand and tugging him back a little when he tried to make a hasty retreat. "Mick – you don't need to be sorry…"

"It's silly. Ridiculous." Mick forced a smile, not meeting Sam's eyes. " _I'm_ …" He shook his head again, pulling his hand free and turning toward the door. "I'm sorry."

"Mick…" Sam called after him, not even sure what he was going to say – but Mick was already gone, the door quietly closed behind him.

Sam rose from the bed, everything in him wanting to follow after Mick and make sure that he was okay – but he stopped himself at the door, closing his hand into a fist instead of closing it around the handle and opening it, shutting his eyes and resting his head against the door for a moment with a sigh.

 _No… no, because if you do that, if you go after him, let's be real, here, Winchester… that only ends one way. With him spending the night in here, and the lines getting blurrier and the boundaries more muddled – even if one of you spends the night on the floor._

 _It hurts. Both of you. But – it's best to just let him go._

 _In the morning, you'll both be fine, and you'll have set an important boundary that will help to protect him. He'll be better off. You're making the right choice._

But it _really_ didn't feel like the right choice.

Sam couldn't shake the disappointment and hurt in Mick's eyes from his mind. He debated going after him for a while, but in the end stayed in his own room. Fear of further embarrassing Mick, of confusing him – fear of his own weakness – prevented him from crossing the few yards down the hall that separated them, telling himself over and over again that in this case, the distance was what was best… for both of them.

It was hours before Sam was able to fall asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Mick left Sam's room and hurried down the hall to his own, his face burning with humiliation at Sam's rejection. As he closed his bedroom door behind him, he felt a rather empty sense of relief. He turned the lock, then went to the bed and sat down on the side, resting his head in his hands and drawing in a slow breath before letting it out in a tremulous rush.

Mick could still see the awful pity on Sam's face – could still hear the careful way he had chosen his words, so as to _not_ say that Mick was even more fucked up than he'd imagined… so as not to point out that he was just a damaged little slut who'd offer himself up for Sam's pleasure in exchange for a scrap of safety and comfort.

 _But you would, wouldn't you? Give him anything he wanted if he'd just let you stay close… would willingly fall to your knees for him, and do anything he asked while you're there, for just another minute of that peace and security you felt there the first time…_

Mick had asked to stay in Sam's room as a means of preventing Ketch from discovering their plan – that was all. Not because he wanted to be there. Not because he'd felt safer at Sam's feet than any other place he could remember. Not because, so strangely, the only time he'd felt like he had any sense of control at all anymore was when he'd relinquished it into Sam's hands.

Sam's refusal should have been nothing more than an obstacle to be overcome; Mick should have been focusing on what to do next, on coming up with a new way to protect them. He should _not_ have been replaying every humiliating word of their conversation, over and over again in his mind, feeling the acute sting of Sam's rejection, and the aching disappointment of being sent away from him.

Mick swallowed hard, raking a hand back through his hair as he looked up at his locked bedroom door. He forced himself to focus, to put aside the confusing emotions overwhelming him and think instead about what he needed to do next.

He had more pressing concerns at the moment than his own wounded dignity – such as the fact that Ketch could fulfill his threat, and visit the bunker that very night.

If things had gone according to Mick's plan, then it wouldn't have been an issue. Ketch would find Mick in Sam's room – in Sam's bed, or better yet on a pallet on the floor – and he'd assume that he'd simply missed the show. He wouldn't dare – _surely he wouldn't_ – to try to assault Mick himself, with Sam sleeping just a few yards away.

Ketch was arrogant, and bold, and antagonistic – but he wasn't suicidal.

But Sam's refusal changed everything. If Ketch came to the bunker now, and found Mick here in his own comfortable, private bedroom with its locking door – far too comfortable of accommodations for the slave to a _cruel, ruthless monster_ such as Sam Winchester – best case scenario, he would go away quietly, more suspicious than ever.

The worst case scenario hardly bore thinking about. Ketch could get in, could get to him and do whatever he wanted, while Sam slept on, oblivious, in his own room down the hall. Mick knew that there was no lock in the bunker that Ketch couldn't get past, either with an actual key, or by means of his considerable skills.

 _Not allowed to lock him out at headquarters…_ Mick's stomach dropped, and his mouth went dry. He rose and went to the door, hesitating a moment before turning the lock. _What are you doing? Now he can get in… he can get to you now, lock it back!_ But the thought of how Ketch would respond to being locked out was even more frightening. Mick swallowed hard, then backed toward the bed, without locking the door again. _If he comes, don't want him to find it locked… don't want to give him a reason…_

But Mick's sinking heart knew that it was hopeless, anyway. Ketch didn't need a reason to hurt him; and if he came that night, and found Mick in this room, untouched, uninjured, supposedly just a little while after Sam should have finished with him… he'd know that he'd been deceived.

And then, trivial things like whether or not Mick had locked him out wouldn't matter anymore.

Mick closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing and the erratic racing of his heart as panic threatened to consume him again. He had to stay calm, had to _think_. He needed a way to convince Ketch that their ruse was true – and sleeping on the floor at Sam's feet wasn't going to be the answer.

 _If there was evidence that Sam had been with me tonight… physical evidence that he'd hurt me… then he'd be convinced and he'd have no reason to come back here, no reason to harm Sam, or me… but Sam hasn't touched me, hasn't left a single mark…_

Mick sighed heavily as he looked down at the unblemished skin that covered his arms, his gaze lingering on his left wrist, remembering the vicious pleasure Ketch had taken in using that injury to torment him. He frowned, focusing on the spot for a moment, an idea occurring to him.

 _Sam hasn't left any marks… there need to be marks… bruises, lashes,_ something…

Mick looked around the room, his gaze finally settling on his clothes, neatly folded across the back of his desk chair – and the narrow leather belt that lay on top of them. He got up and walked to it – picked it up, tested its strength by stretching it taut in his hands. He bit his lip, considering.

 _Sam won't like it… but he doesn't have to know… can hide the marks, keep him from seeing… but if Ketch comes tonight, it's one little detail that could make all the difference…_

Mick went to the bed and sat down near the headboard. He threaded the belt through the buckle to form a cuff, then wrapped the end around one of the slats of the headboard a few times, before slipping his wrist into the cuff and pulling, hard. The leather cinched tight around his wrist, pulled up short where it was wrapped around the slat. Mick set his jaw and yanked hard against the restriction, wincing a little as the leather bit into his skin.

 _Not enough… not nearly enough… only real damage will convince him…_

Mick pulled hard against the belt again, pretending as if he was actually trying to get free of it, twisting and yanking until the headboard creaked and his skin was raw and bruised. He kept on, pulling harder and harder, until finally he jerked against the makeshift bond so hard that he had to bury a groan in his free arm, for fear of being heard down the hall. He wasn't really sure how thick the bedroom walls were, or if anyone was left awake in the bunker to hear.

Or if Ketch was on his way there, _right now_.

Mick repeated the process with his other wrist, until both wrists throbbed and ached, the skin bruised, even broken in a couple of places where the leather edge had cut into it. Finally satisfied, Mick lay down in his bed and tried to sleep, though his own handiwork prevented it for a while. Still, he felt relief to think that if Ketch decided to pay him a visit that night, he'd have evidence of the abuse Ketch would expect him to have endured.

Ketch did not visit the bunker that night.

The next morning, Mick carefully made sure that the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt covered his damaged wrists completely. The discomfort of the stiff fabric chafing against the raw skin was small price to pay to ensure that Sam didn't discover what he'd done.

"Morning!" Sam greeted him from the kitchen table with a bright smile. "Coffee's fresh. Unless you want tea. I went for a run this morning already, and I passed this little shop, and they had like – fourteen kinds, so I bought some. Not all fourteen kinds, though. Just – four."

Sam gestured toward four brand new tin containers of tea on the counter next to a kettle of hot water, and the hopeful expression in his eyes revealed his veiled gesture of apology for what it was.

"Thank you." Mick forced a smile and went to the counter, selecting one of the probably dreadful fruity flavors and pouring a mug of hot water.

Sam didn't need to apologize. Mick was the one who'd made things awkward.

He was strangely relieved when Sam dropped him off at headquarters that morning. It meant that he didn't have to worry about pretending that things were normal between them, or about hiding anything from Sam.

Instead, he could focus on making sure that Ketch found no reason to pay an unexpected visit to the bunker.

He set about his daily tasks – cleaning the conference room, filing paperwork – and then waited for Ketch to come by. Mick glanced anxiously at Ketch as he neared him, reaching up for another file from the top of the cabinet and allowing his shirt sleeve to ride up a bit in the process. He immediately dropped the file where he'd found it and tugged self-consciously at his sleeve, giving Ketch a worried look before returning to his work.

Ketch took a couple of steps past Mick before stopping abruptly and turning back. Mick let out a little yelp of genuine fright when Ketch grasped his forearm, spinning him around and pushing him against the wall. He unfastened the button at Mick's wrist and pushed his sleeve up a bit, inspecting his wrist with narrowed eyes.

A slow smile spread across Ketch's face, though there was something tight and ugly in it. "So it seems Sam's feeling a bit threatened, is he?" he remarked with a sneer. "Felt the need to be even _more_ obvious about staking his claim than he was yesterday?"

He shifted in closer, and Mick swallowed hard, as Ketch dragged his thumb slow and heavy across the ragged skin of Mick's left wrist. A wave of nausea swept over Mick, and he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, his senses assailed with memories of a far worse pain. He shuddered as Ketch reached up his free hand to run through Mick's hair in a parody of gentle affection.

"But we both know the truth… don't we, love?"

Mick nodded, swallowing hard, desperately hoping that this would be enough for Ketch, enough to keep him away from the bunker and keep the Winchesters' sanctuary safe.

"I've got a project I need your help with," Sam announced as soon as Mick got into the car that evening.

The unbearable awkwardness of their morning had filled his thoughts all day; he'd cringed every time he thought of his pitiful efforts to act normal, to ignore what had happened between them, and how Mick had graciously attempted to go along with Sam's pretense. But the sadness, the undeserved shame in Mick's eyes, had filled Sam with the awful fear that he'd damaged their relationship in a way he couldn't quite identify.

He wanted to do whatever he could to fix it, before that strained distance between them could grow wider and more insurmountable.

Mick glanced at Sam quickly and nodded, letting out a breath; Sam was pretty sure he wasn't imagining the relief in his eyes.

Sam's project, if nothing else, would provide them with a distraction to prevent the awkward tension from descending upon them again. It was a tried and true Winchester method for not dealing with uncomfortable emotions – keep busy, find a way to lose yourself in the work – but Sam wasn't ashamed of falling back on it.

That wasn't really his motive, anyway – at least not his only one. He just wanted to show Mick that they could still work together, still spend time together – that Sam's decision of the night before hadn't been an attempt to reject him or push him aside.

He asked Mick about his day, about how Ketch had behaved, if anyone else – _Morgan_ – had been there. He was unsurprised by the brief, quiet responses he received to his questions. He'd already decided to wait until their hands were busy with other things to make any attempt at deeper conversation.

When they parked the Impala in the garage, Dean and Cas were already there, leaning over the engine of Cas's beat-up old truck, heads close together under the hood. Dean almost hit his head on it as he straightened, moving away from Cas considerably as he turned to greet his brother.

"Hey, Sammy." His smile was a little too wide, his casual tone too innocent. "I'm just giving Cas a few tips on how to keep this beast from dying on him. You know, any sooner than it's already going to."

"It's a perfectly reliable vehicle," Cas grumbled, glaring at Dean in that suspicious way of his, the look that said he was pretty sure he should be offended, but he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Sure it is," Dean agreed brightly, not looking at Cas and keeping his attention focused on Sam until he turned to go.

Sam shook his head a little as they made their way toward the library, affectionately amused – and maybe a little concerned – by Dean's reaction anytime someone caught him a little too close to Cas these days.

 _Like they're fooling anybody, anyway… it's obvious that things have changed between them…_

 _And it's about time._

"I think I've gotten about all I can on nephilim out of these books," Sam explained as they stopped beside the table in the library. "There might be more, somewhere, but this is all I've been able to find. The copies of the relevant pages and my handwritten notes are all kind of a mess right now…" He nodded towards the scattered papers on the large table. "But I think the books themselves need to be put away. I'm trying to come up with a way to get Ketch out of headquarters long enough for you to have plenty of time with his computer. Which means I might need to find a reason to invite him here. Which means I do _not_ want all these dead giveaways lying around when and if that happens."

Mick swallowed slowly, taking in the scattered books and papers on the table for a moment before meeting Sam's eyes, something searching, a question in his gaze. "Yeah… makes sense," he conceded, his voice soft and cautious. Sam noticed with dismay that Mick's right hand was wrapped around his left wrist again – something Sam hadn't seen him do in a while.

"You won't be here when he is," Sam assured him, hesitating just a fraction of an instant before reaching out to touch Mick's arm, and suppressing his disappointment when Mick flinched a little. "That's the whole point." He smiled, unsurprised not to receive one in return. "So anyway, we get all these books put away, and then we need to get these notes organized. I have some on the powers of a nephilim, some on ways to kill or fight a nephilim, then some other general notes. We need those sorted and then put into this notebook right here…" Sam picked up an empty three-ring binder. "… so that I can easily put it away somewhere if I need to."

"Right." Mick nodded, but his expression was still oddly wary, his eyes studying Sam a little too closely. "Got it."

Sam sat down and started sorting the papers on the table into stacks, while Mick began putting the books away. They worked in silence, but the work made the silence less uncomfortable.

"You know, you're good at this," Sam remarked quietly when Mick finished with the books and came to stand beside him, then began to go through the loose sheets of notes and copies.

Mick looked up, a single brow arched dubiously. "Filing," he clarified, flat and unimpressed. "I'm good at… filing."

"You're good at the job," Sam corrected, looking up from his work to meet Mick's eyes. "The research, the organization… hunting, too. You're better at most things than you realize." Mick stood still, watching Sam, clearly waiting for his point – so Sam made it, though he wasn't sure if voicing it would make things better or worse. "I'm really glad you're here, Mick. _Really_. You're an asset, and – and you're my friend, and – I don't want you to think that, because – because of what happened last-"

The loud scrape and squeaking hinges of the heavy metal door, the click of the lock turning, interrupted Sam's ill-advised little speech, and drew his attention toward the bunker entrance. His pulse quickened with alarm, and he automatically found himself reaching under the table for the gun kept there – but he was seated at the wrong end of the table, the one farthest from the door.

At the strange sound, Mick jumped, the papers in his hand fluttering down to scatter on the floor as he looked toward the door with wide eyes and a solemn expression. Sam frowned, momentarily distracted by his reaction. He seemed scared, startled – but not really _surprised_. Instead of preparing to defend himself, Mick crouched down hurriedly to gather the scattered papers in trembling hands.

All at once, it registered for Sam that the bunker wasn't being broken into; whoever was at the door had a _key_.

As the door creaked open, Sam snapped his fingers to quietly get Mick's attention, and Mick looked up at him, tense and apprehensive.

"Ketch?" Sam mouthed.

Mick bit his lip and hesitated, then nodded once.

A fierce rush of indignation and anger washed over Sam at the confirmation, at the very thought of Ketch just walking in on them and invading their home this way.

 _Why? What reason does he have to be here? And how does he have a key?_

Sam's thoughts raced with his quickening pulse as he listened to Ketch's footsteps on the stairs, and made himself focus on what Ketch needed to find when he reached the bottom, in order to preserve their deception.

Reaching a decision, Sam nodded at Mick, meeting his eyes – and then gently pushed down on his shoulder until he was no longer crouching beside Sam's chair, but kneeling, half-under the table, and completely hidden from Ketch's view. Mick's eyes were confused, fearful, and his lips parted to speak, but Sam touched his finger to his lips for a moment, keeping his other hand on Mick's shoulder in a gesture that he hoped would be reassuring.

Mick was going to need it to be, to get through what was going to happen next.

Sam reached with his free hand to unzip his jeans, leaning back in his chair, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes – which allowed the small mercy that he didn't have to look at Mick while he put on the necessary show for Ketch.

Sam made his breath heavy and ragged, but could still hear Ketch's soft footsteps as he entered the library, not otherwise announcing his presence. Sam pretended not to know he was there, and made his voice low and hoarse, just loud enough that Ketch could hear, but soft enough that it would seem Sam didn't want to be heard.

"Yeah… that's it, just like that… _almost_ …"

Sam allowed an obscene groan of pleasure to escape his lips, breathing hard, before lazily raising his head, blinking sleepily and then slowly focusing on Ketch. Sam feigned surprise, sitting up abruptly. "What the hell, Ketch?" he snapped, allowing a genuine edge of irritation at Ketch's intrusion to slip into his voice. He fumbled with his hands under the edge of the table as if tucking himself away, and finally zipped up his jeans.

Ketch smirked at him, clearly amused. "Well," he remarked. "It seems we've both… _come_ at a bad time."

Under the edge of the table, Mick clutched the stack of papers in one hand and started to get up. His eyes were wide and frightened, and Sam felt a rush of understanding and sympathy, not untouched by guilt. The position Mick was in, combined with Sam's behavior, was more than enough to have spooked him, and if Sam was "finished", it logically made sense that Mick could get up now.

But Sam didn't want Ketch to get a glimpse of their work, and he wanted to protect Mick from whatever possessive posturing and intimidation tactics Ketch might try. He kept all trace of sympathy from his expression, setting his jaw with irritation as he grabbed a handful of Mick's shirt and yanked him back down onto his knees, his voice a low, menacing snarl.

"Did I tell you to get up, bitch?"

Mick flinched, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry…"

Sam's stomach lurched at his reaction. Mick's apology was far too soft for Ketch to have heard it – far too sincere to have been intended for Ketch's benefit alone. Still, Sam didn't allow himself more than a moment's glance at Mick before refocusing his attention on Ketch.

There would be time for apologies and explanations later – and he was beginning to suspect that he would not be the only one who would owe them.

"What are you doing here?" he sighed, as if Ketch was an unexpected irritation – nothing more. "Just walking into a guy's home as if you own the place? Without knocking or anything?" He smirked. "Don't you Brits generally have better manners than that?"

"Except that it's not your home, not really," Ketch countered, with a smug expression that made Sam want to wipe it from his face with his fist. "And… I _do_ … own the place."

An instinctive sense of indignation rose in Sam, and he pressed it back, along with the unsettled sensation in the pit of his stomach at Ketch's claim. He restrained his reaction and simply arched a brow, his tone skeptical.

"Is that so? How do you figure?"

"These bunkers, all over the world, belong to the Men of Letters. Not any one or two of them, either, but all of them. In that way, yes, this bunker is yours… but no more than it is mine." Ketch smiled, waving the key a little between his thumb and forefinger. "All leaders of all Men of Letters branches have access to any of the bunkers any time they choose."

It was a possibility that Sam hadn't even considered – but he immediately knew that he should have. The key he and Dean possessed had come from the Men of Letters in the first place. Of course there was more than one, and of course the Men of Letters leadership chose who held them.

Sam's irritation at himself for not thinking of it was eclipsed by a rising sense of alarm as he thought back over the past few months since the British Men of Letters had arrived – all the nights he and Dean had slept in this bunker, utterly oblivious to the fact that it was not nearly as secure as they'd thought. Had Ketch slipped into the bunker under cover of darkness, gone through their things, spied on them? He certainly could have, any time he wanted.

Sam glanced down at Mick, a cold knot tightening in his chest with the unsettling realization – Ketch was not the first to have held that key.

He swallowed hard, the pieces falling into place as he studied Mick's guilty, fearful stance. He had settled onto his knees, shoulders pulled in as if to make himself smaller, less conspicuous. His right hand was worrying at his left wrist, his eyes downcast as he swallowed hard – clearly agonizingly aware of Sam's attention, but unable to meet his eyes.

Suddenly, their conversation of the night before made a lot more sense.

"So, is there a reason you're here _now_?" Sam asked Ketch, putting a bored, irritated note into his words. He needed answers – but in order to get them, he needed Ketch _gone_. "As you can see… I'm a little busy."

"Yes," Ketch conceded with a grin. "I can see that. I thought I'd stop by and see if you were working on anything at the moment, since you haven't a case assigned by us. But I can clearly see…" He trailed a hand along the empty table, rubbing imaginary dust between his fingertips as he concluded, "… you may be busy, but not with anything… productive." He paused, a sly note to his voice as he continued, "I must say, I was beginning to wonder if you were taking proper advantage of the benefits of this arrangement of ours. Mick of course explained to me about your angel, and how he… cleans up after you…"

Sam kept his expression neutral, not allowing his momentary confusion to show. It was easy enough to put together what Ketch was talking about – the best cover story Mick could have come up with on the fly to explain the lack of injuries from his time spent with Sam.

"… seems this time, he conveniently… missed a spot."

Sam allowed himself only a slight frown; that comment was a bit more confusing. Movement under the table caught his eye; he glanced down at Mick, and suddenly felt sick. Mick was still kneeling, but his anxious eyes were turned up toward Sam, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he held his arms up for Sam to see. The cuffs of his sleeves were rolled up a little to expose his wrists – bruised and reddened as if they'd been bound for a long time.

Except – they both knew that Sam hadn't bound him.

The shame, the edge of panic on Mick's face as he searched Sam's eyes for his reaction, told Sam the rest of the story. Mick had done this to himself. Sam wasn't sure how he'd done it, but he could hazard a guess as to why – and for the moment, the best thing he could do was to use it.

Sam recovered quickly, grinning up at Ketch. "Yeah, well. I guess he got lazy. Or something."

"Or something," Ketch echoed with a dark, knowing look. "You've made your point." He smiled, tossing the key up a bit and catching it in his hand. "And now I've made mine."

He turned on his heel and headed for the door. Sam ignored the impulse to respond; he'd let Ketch have his moment of satisfaction, if it would get him out the door faster. He listened to Ketch's retreating footsteps, waited until he heard the door closing behind him before getting up and moving to the other end of the library, far enough to see that Ketch had really left.

He stood there for a moment, gathering his thoughts, drawing in a deep breath in an attempt to calm his rising anger as the pieces all came together in his mind – before finally giving up, turning on his heel and stalking back to his spot at the table with swift, purposeful steps.

Mick was still on his knees, half-under the table, his eyes on the floor. He'd pulled the cuffs of his sleeves back down to cover the damage he'd done, and his arms were folded protectively across his body. He was trembling as he glanced up at Sam, then looked away, miserable and ashamed.

Sam clenched his fist at his side, wrestling his own anger into submission, keeping his voice low and calm.

"Get up."

Mick drew in a shuddering breath, then nodded quickly and got to his feet, his head still bowed as he stood facing Sam. Sam swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment and drawing in a slow breath before looking at Mick again, his jaw set with anger.

"Show me."

Mick's hands shook as he unbuttoned his sleeves and pushed them up a little, and Sam was reminded of the first time Ketch had brought him to the bunker, how scared he'd been, how much relief Sam had felt to be able to offer him some margin of safety within the bunker's walls.

And even then, with his huge, tearful eye and grateful words – Mick had _known_ that it was a lie. They hadn't been safe, not since the moment the Brits had arrived.

Mick flinched when Sam reached for his arms, but Sam didn't back down, gripping them firmly and raising them so that he could get a better look at Mick's wrists. He winced at the extent of the damage, a hot rush of anger filling up his chest as he lowered Mick's arms between them so that he could see Mick's face. Mick tried to pull away, but Sam just held his arms tighter, just above his wrists, jerking him closer and shaking him a little.

"What the hell did you do to yourself?"

"I – I had to," Mick whispered, eyes closed, going pliant in Sam's grasp, no longer trying to pull away. "So that Ketch would believe – that you're actually – that _you_ did it. He's been – asking questions, and – I thought – if there was evidence…"

"You told him Cas healed you every morning, right? That's what he was talking about just now?"

Mick nodded. "Yeah…"

"Then why did you think you had to do _this_?" Sam released Mick's wrists, disgusted and dismayed. He hated that Mick had hurt himself; it felt like all his efforts to protect Mick since he'd come to the bunker had been thrown back in his face – worthless. "If he bought it…"

"I-I'm not sure he did," Mick admitted, pleading, miserable, immediately wrapping his left wrist in his right hand. "And – if he came in and saw – late at night, when we were asleep…"

"You knew." Sam had already suspected it, but Mick's words confirmed it. His heart sank with bitter disappointment. He had felt like they were getting somewhere, making progress, like Mick was beginning to trust him. Now, all he felt was violation and betrayal. "You knew he had a key, knew he could come in here anytime – and you didn't _tell_ me?"

Mick flinched, tears on his face – but they did nothing but aggravate Sam's frustration and anger. He'd put them all in danger; the marks on his body, he'd put there himself. Mick had no right to his self-pity. "I – I knew you'd be angry…"

"So you'd rather risk our safety – mine and Dean's _and_ yours – than make me _angry_?" Sam let out a harsh laugh. "So how exactly is _that_ working out for you?" He shook his head a little, the bitter smile fading from his face. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea what could have happened? All my research has been laying out all over the table until _just now_. We both know he's got a huge problem with me. What if he decided to just forget the whole deal and get rid of us in our sleep? What if he decided to _burn the fucking place down_?" Sam turned away a little, wrestling to keep his own anger in check.

"I know," Mick whispered. "I know, Sam, I'm sorry… I – I forgot…"

"Do _not_ fucking lie to me!" Sam snapped, rounding on Mick again, furious. "You had the key first! Do not tell me that in a couple months' time you forgot it existed!"

Mick shied back a step, choking back a sob. "I'm sorry," he repeated miserably. "So much happened, and I – I didn't think…"

"You didn't think you could tell me he had a key?" Sam forced himself to lower his voice, aware even through his fury of the effect it was having on Mick. As much as he felt Mick deserved it – deserved to feel scared and guilty and to feel like shit for what he'd done – Sam was aware that if he wasn't careful, he could damage their relationship in ways that would be impossible to repair later. He drew in a slow, steadying breath, keeping his words low and even. "What did you think I'd do?"

"I thought you'd – b-be angry," Mick explained, wincing a little at the weakness of his own reasoning. "Thought you'd – confront him, and then _he'd_ be angry, and – you'd both – I was – I was afraid…"

"Of me," Sam concluded. "You're still afraid of me?"

Mick bit his lip, hesitating. He closed his eyes and swallowed slowly. "Right now?" he whispered, hoarse and trembling. "At – at this moment? _Yes_."

Instantly, Sam felt his anger deflate at the simple honesty of Mick's answer. He was still angry, really angry at Mick for his deception – _multiple_ deceptions, actually – but the last thing he wanted was for Mick to be afraid of him. Sam thought of the way Mick had looked at him the night before – with total trust, as he'd asked to sleep in Sam's room, even if he had to sleep on the fucking _floor_ – because he _trusted_ Sam, because he believed that Sam would protect him from the one he was really afraid of.

Sam did not want to _become_ the one that Mick was really afraid of.

He sighed heavily, running a hand down over his face. "Just – go."

Mick froze, staring up at Sam with a look of horror before lowering his gaze. He nodded, squaring his shoulders, his jaw setting bravely – and then Sam was horrified too, when he realized what Mick thought. He reached out a hand to tilt Mick's head up to face him, and Mick flinched, but then raised his eyes to meet Sam's gaze. Sam's breath was stolen by the fierce courage he saw there behind Mick's fear.

"To your room," Sam clarified quietly. "Just go – _to your room_." The uncertainty on Mick's face, the realization that he still believed Sam could hurt him, or kick him out, left Sam feeling discouraged and defeated. He let go of Mick and turned away with a heavy sigh. "I need – I need a minute. We _both_ need a minute to – calm down, to – to think. Then we'll talk."

Sam could hear the relief in the slow, shaky breath that Mick released behind him. "O-okay," he whispered. "I-I'm sorry."

Sam did not acknowledge his words, did not turn around – and after a moment, he heard Mick's slow, quiet footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Mick did as Sam had told him, and went to his room, closing the door – but this time he didn't dare to lock it. Once Sam had a chance to calm down, he'd be coming to talk to him, and Mick didn't want to do anything to risk making Sam any angrier than he already was.

 _You deserve it. He has every right to be angry, and if he throws you out in the street, turns you back over to Ketch, beats the life out of you himself… you deserve it. Liar. Coward. Treacherous little whore, you_ deserve _it…_

Tonight, for the first time since Mick had come to the bunker, Sam had actually seemed angry enough with him to do those things – to hurt him, to give up on him.

And yet… he was still here.

" _Go to your room_ ," Sam had instructed.

It was still... _his_.

Sam was furious, now that he'd finally put together the things Mick had been keeping from him. Of course Mick's efforts to protect them had been useless, of course Ketch had come to the bunker anyway. Mick should have told Sam about the key the moment he'd remembered it; Sam was too smart not to figure it out, and now he knew, and Mick had put them all in terrible danger due to his own selfishness and cowardice, and Sam was angrier with him than Mick had ever seen him…

Yet curiously, what seemed to have made Sam angrier than anything else was the bruises and torn flesh on Mick's wrists.

 _He still cares… still doesn't want you to be hurt… despite what you've done… still didn't harm you, no matter how you pushed him to it…_

There'd been a moment, yeah, when Sam had raised his voice and shaken him and he'd been certain that he'd finally managed it – finally ruined everything and provoked even kind, gentle Sam past the point of his self-control and earned violent punishment at his hands.

But he'd been wrong.

Sam hadn't hurt him. He'd remained gentle and careful – angry, yeah, with every right to be. But he hadn't hurt him. He'd put everything Sam had at risk, had deceived him and endangered him and his brother – and still, Sam hadn't hurt him.

 _Don't deserve him, worthless, lying little slut… don't deserve his kindness or mercy… don't deserve to be here at all…_

Sam's knock at the door startled Mick out of his thoughts. He swallowed slowly, gathering his courage before rising to his feet and crossing the room to open the door.

Sam stood in the bedroom doorway, his face stern and unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. "Take a shower. Get what you need to get ready for bed." He paused, as if not quite sure he wanted to go on, before concluding with mingled anger and resignation, his expression reluctantly softening a little. "Then get your things – blankets, pillows, whatever you need. You're sleeping in my room tonight."


	13. Chapter 13

Mick lingered in the shower for as long as he dared. The hot water poured down over him, soothing tense muscles and warming away the nervous tremor in his body. A remnant of the tension of Ketch's unannounced visit and all that had followed, or anticipation of what was to come when he met Sam in his room – Mick wasn't entirely sure.

Mick wasn't entirely sure of anything at the moment; nothing quite made sense. In spite of the danger he'd placed them in – in spite of Sam's previous objections to the idea of Mick sleeping in his room at all – Mick had still been invited into Sam's room to spend the night. He was getting exactly what he'd asked for.

And he wasn't exactly sure _why_.

When he closed his eyes, Mick could still see the accusation in Sam's eyes as he'd taken in the self-inflicted injuries on Mick's arms – could still feel Sam's barely restrained fury as he'd shaken him, demanding explanation for Mick's betrayal. His stomach lurched, a chill passing through him despite the heat of the water streaming down over him – because Sam had _every right_ to be furious with him.

Ketch could have caught them in a casual, relaxed moment that would have betrayed their entire scheme. He could have seen their research spread over the table in the library. He could have decided to end his Winchester troubles in one fell swoop, slipped into the bunker in the middle of the night and planted a bomb, or simply shot them as they slept in their beds.

Mick could have cost Sam his life – and yet, Sam was granting his request, allowing him to stay in his room for the night. He was getting exactly what he'd asked for. But it wasn't a relief, or gratifying in any way.

It was fucking terrifying.

Sam's promises of safety and protection echoed in Mick's thoughts, and he tried to remind himself that if Sam wanted to hurt him, he'd had plenty of opportunity to this point. Sam didn't _have_ to get Mick alone, behind his closed bedroom door, in order to hurt him. Mick was at his mercy, every moment, and if Sam intended to strike him down for this latest and worst in a long list of tremendous fuck-ups, he could have done it in the library, when he was at his angriest – when it had certainly looked as if he _wanted_ to.

There was a certain comforting reassurance as well, in Mick's knowledge that he was doing as Sam had told him. He'd spent the last few days tormented by guilt and confusion and uncertainty as to what he should do – but this, at least, was simple.

 _Take a shower. Get ready for bed. Take your things to Sam's room._

Mick could do those things. He could obey, he could please Sam, if only in these small ways. He so desperately _wanted_ to please Sam, to show him that he wasn't wasting his effort on a lost, worthless cause. Mick _could_ be good, and useful, and not simply a burden, another problem that Sam had to solve.

But the sting of the hot spray against the raw skin of his bruised wrists was a clear reminder: he had yet to prove it.

Mick got out of the shower and dried off quickly, a sense of urgency setting in with his troubled thoughts. He needed to stop stalling. Sam deserved better than that from him. Sam had saved him. Risked his own safety and well-being in order to free Mick from Ketch's slavery. His body was whole now, another evidence of Sam's kindness and concern – except for the dark circles on his wrists, shadows of slavery that Mick had willingly chosen to inflict upon himself.

 _Pathetic fool._

Mick quickly put on a clean shirt and soft sleep pants, then gathered his things, his mind flooded with the bitter, disgusted diatribe of his own thoughts.

 _Sam isn't Ketch. Or – any of the others. This isn't a trick, some manipulation to bully you into compliance with someone else's plan, or… or code. He's trying to help you – to save you – and you throw it back in his face. Finally, just when it looks like maybe you've found a chance at a good thing, you've got to go and fuck it up – because that's just what you_ do _, isn't it? Worthless little piece of shit – and sooner or later he'll see it. He'll realize: you're not worth it. Not worth his time, or effort, or the risk to him and his own._

 _Not worth saving._

He stood at his bedroom door for a few moments, trying to gather enough courage to face Sam. It was useless, he knew; his shame was glaringly obvious, etched into his skin. But Sam was waiting for him. His steps were heavy as he made his way down the hall to Sam's room, and his hand faltered a couple of times before he managed to knock on the door.

Sam's voice answered, quiet and commanding, from the other side.

"Come in."

Mick opened the door and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him. It was another moment before he was able to bring himself to lift his gaze and take Sam in. Sam was standing on the far side of his own bed, dressed for bed as well in a t-shirt and pajama pants. He stood in silence, watching Mick with solemn eyes, his mouth a taut, troubled line. He met Mick's gaze for a moment and then nodded, silently indicating a spot on the side of his bed nearest the door.

Mick followed Sam's gaze to a narrow mattress Sam had placed there, covered with a sheet. Mick obediently went to it and set down his blanket and pillow, then straightened to face Sam. His hands free, the right automatically circled his left wrist, his gaze lowered, his stomach roiling as he tried to think of what to say, anything to fill the tense, heavy silence that separated them.

Mick opened his mouth to speak, but his heart was racing, his throat closed up with slowly building panic. He had to offer _something_ to this man, both savior and judge who stood before him in stoic silence, simply waiting – but he couldn't find any words that didn't feel foolish and redundant and utterly _useless_.

More apologies would be repetitive to the point of being meaningless – and yet the only words that filled his mind, desperate and urgent, drowning out any other thought was simply, _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sam, please…"_

"Come here."

Sam's voice was quiet, calm – and yet the note of authority in it made Mick's stomach drop. He did not sound angry, but his arresting tone made it clear – he held no question as to whether or not he would be obeyed.

If only Mick could bring himself to _move_.

The space that separated them was no greater than ten feet – around the foot of Sam's bed to face him – but it was a distance that felt insurmountable. Mick's legs were like rubber, weak and faltering under the weight of his guilt. Sam stood silently waiting, severe and unyielding, silently insistent that Mick come to _him_ – and Mick could do nothing else.

But his heart was like a stone in his chest, each step heavier, more difficult. His face hot with shame, Mick could think of nothing except how badly he had let Sam down, disappointed him – put him and all he held dear at risk. He didn't deserve Sam's mercy, didn't even deserve to stand before him – but that was what Sam required of him. Mick forced himself to close the distance between them, his shame pressing down on him until his legs simply wouldn't hold him up anymore, and he folded to his knees at Sam's feet.

There was a sharp, sweet, immediate sense of relief the moment he hit the floor, like when he'd knelt before Sam in the conference room, offering himself up to Sam's control. It didn't entirely drive out his apprehension; he might still be rejected, or even punished. He _deserved_ to be punished, shamed for what he'd done. But it was no longer in Mick's hands. If Sam chose mercy, or condemnation, whatever he chose to do – it was no longer within Mick's power to do anything except surrender.

"I'm sorry…" The words escaped his lips then, choked out past the aching sob caught in his throat. Mick was unable to bring himself to look up, his shaking hands raised to hide his tear-streaked face. "I'm _so sorry_ …"

Sam remained where he stood, towering over Mick – offering no mercy, no absolution. Mick knew that he deserved none. His foolishness could have cost them all their lives, and Sam had every right to stand in judgment – his presence imposing, accusing, the embodiment of Mick's guilt and shame. Mick's heart sank with the confirmation of his fears – that he might be tolerated, might be shown pity… but not forgiveness. He'd placed the people Sam truly loved, the ones who were actually worth something to him, in danger – and that could not be forgiven.

And then, inexplicably, Sam was on his knees, too, facing Mick, one large, gentle hand carefully coming to rest on his back. Mick still couldn't look up, but the desperate relief that flooded through him at the simple contact made the tears flow from his eyes, and he broke down completely. After a moment, Sam let out a heavy sigh, and Mick felt Sam's arms fold around him, warm and strong and sheltering as he was drawn in close.

"Shh, come here," Sam said softly, and Mick yielded gratefully, hiding his face against Sam's chest. "Come here…"

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, words muffled, hands grasping at the sides of Sam's t-shirt and holding on desperately. "Please, I'm so sorry…"

"I know, Mick," Sam whispered, his voice weary and heavy with disappointment, or perhaps defeat; Mick couldn't quite tell. It was difficult to focus on anything but the soothing touch of Sam's hand, gently stroking up and down Mick's back. "I know you are. I've got you, you're all right… you're all right…"

Sam's arms enveloped Mick easily, surrounding him, and a shiver passed through Mick with the reminder of how much bigger and stronger Sam was than him – how easily Sam could overpower him, could hurt him, if he wanted to. But Sam didn't. His strong arms were gentle, protective – a welcome restriction, a reassurance that he was still safe, still sheltered despite his failings. Sam hadn't given up on him, wasn't rejecting him.

He still _belonged_ here.

Slowly, Mick felt his tears begin to ebb, the fine tremor in his body fading away. Only when he'd finally gone quiet and still did Sam break the silence, his voice hushed and coaxing.

"Look at me…"

As he spoke, Sam took Mick's arms and gently pushed him back a little. Mick closed his eyes, his shame still too heavy to allow him to meet Sam's gaze. Sam insistently tilted his head up with one hand, his tone a little firmer.

"Mick, hey… _look at me_."

Reluctant but obedient, Mick finally raised his eyes to meet Sam's, blinking away tears until the expression of mingled sternness and sympathy on Sam's face was clear.

"What you did was very dangerous. And yeah – it made me angry. Because we could have all been _killed_. You realize that, right?"

Mick nodded, biting his lip to stifle a sob, looking away.

"Hey." Sam's voice was sharp, mildly warning, and Mick immediately met his eyes again, caught off guard a bit by the concern he read there. "You _cannot_ lie to me, Mick. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Mick nodded, before hesitantly pointing out, "But I didn't, I swear I didn't, Sam." Sam frowned, and Mick hurried on, willing Sam to understand. "Ketch took the key from me the day he took over, and he's been handling everything for months, and I just didn't think about it until the other day, when he – when he threatened to come here and – and make sure I was doing my job, and – and then I remembered, and I – I was too scared to tell you, but I didn't mean to keep it from you, and I never used it, Sam, I swear it, please _… please_ …"

"Okay, okay," Sam soothed him, his fingers gentle as they left Mick's face and brushed through his hair, his other arm wrapping tighter around him and pulling him in closer. "I believe you." He was quiet a moment before stating quietly, "You still should have told me."

"I know," Mick admitted, miserable with guilt. "I – I was afraid."

"And – those marks on your wrists." Sam's voice was flat, skeptical. "You didn't choose to actively hide them from me, all during breakfast, the whole ride over to headquarters. You just – _forgot_ to mention that, too."

Mick's heart sank. He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Sam was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his words were careful, measured. "You don't have to trust me, Mick," he said. "That's probably really fucking hard for you right now. Don't think I don't get that. But – either trust me or don't, you know? In or out, because this halfway shit… this keeping secrets and going off on the side with your own plans, while I'm thinking you're being open and honest with me – it's gonna get us all killed."

Mick nodded slowly. "You're right," he admitted. "I know."

Sam hesitated, drawing in a breath before adding softly, "You know, you… don't have to go it alone anymore. I – I _want_ to take care of you."

Sam's words touched something deep within Mick, some spark of hope that still remained in spite of all the many times he'd heard similar promises – all the many times those promises had been broken. The intensity with which Mick wanted that, too – for Sam to take care of him – was frightening. He wanted it – but he knew better than to believe that he could have it.

"You're – not the first one to tell me that," he said softly, glancing up to meet Sam's eyes. "I – I'm trying. To – to trust you, but – anyone who's said that before, who's – said they wanted to help me, to take care of me – it's been utter bullshit." He held Sam's gaze, taking courage from what he saw there – no anger or offense at Mick's words, but instead a sad, sympathetic concern. "They didn't really want to help me. They – wanted to use me. To – own me. 'Trust me, I know what's best for you, I _want_ what's best' – it's all so they could get me where they want me and then do…" He looked away, swallowing slowly. "Or – make _me_ …" He shook his head, closing his eyes against the barrage of memories. "You're – the first one who – who hasn't, and…"

"And you're still… waiting for the other shoe to drop," Sam concluded with a sympathetic sigh. "I'm starting to sound like a broken record here, but I'm gonna keep saying it until you believe me: I'm not going to hurt you. No matter how pissed off I get. I _really do_ just want to help. And I'm not going to give up on you, either. I told you: you belong here, and that means not getting kicked out because of one mistake."

Mick looked down at his red, abraded wrists, swallowing slowly, his sad smile fading. "One mistake," he echoed flatly. "That's – generous."

Sam's hands slid under Mick's, carefully lifting them so that Sam could inspect the damage again. Mick followed his gaze for a moment, his face warm with guilt at the evidence of his mistakes, before looking up into Sam's face – and nearly losing his breath at the sorrow he saw there. Sam's voice was soft, utterly sincere, and Mick felt fresh tears spring to his eyes as he spoke.

"I wish you hadn't done this to yourself. If you'd talked to me, we could have figured out a plan – been ready for Ketch to show up unannounced. You didn't have to…" Sam sighed. "And I can't have Cas heal you – not this time. I want to, but – it doesn't really fit with the story. If I supposedly did this to you to prove a point to Ketch – because I'm a creepy, possessive sadist who's trying to stake his claim – then I'd leave them there, I wouldn't get rid of them."

Mick considered that, nodding slowly in acceptance. "It's all right," he said softly, the words feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. "Did it to myself. Deserve to have to deal with the pain for a day or two." His tone darkened with the disgust he felt as he added, "Might be a good reminder, while it lasts – not to be such a monumental fuck-up."

"Don't." Sam's voice was firm, commanding, and his hand rose to tilt Mick's face up toward him again, insisting on eye contact that Mick could not deny him, despite his shame. Sam's eyes were warm but stern. "I don't want to hear that. You're not. This is – a really fucked up situation, all right? So what if we're still… working out a few kinks?" His hand slid back through Mick's hair, reassuring and affectionate, and Mick closed his eyes, savoring the feeling. "Just – let me know if I'm about to get blindsided again, all right?"

Mick nodded, looking up at Sam and meeting his gaze. "You're not," he assured him. "Not unless I am, too, anyway."

Sam smiled. "Let's hope not."

"I'm sorry," Mick repeated. "I – I want to trust you. I'm – almost certain I do, most of the time. It's just – it's so hard. Anyone else who's offered – what you're offering…" He shook his head, swallowing slowly. "The… price was too high. What they asked of me in return." He faltered a little but managed to raise his eyes to meet Sam's, so warm and concerned it made him ache. "But, this time… I – I want so much for this to – to work. So badly that I – I think I'd do _anything_ you asked of me, Sam. And that's…"

"Scary as fuck," Sam concluded knowingly, his gaze troubled and sympathetic. "If it makes it any easier, Mick – that's how I feel about it, too. The – responsibility of that. I know it costs you a lot, to trust me, and – you need to know how seriously I take that. I promise, I'm never going to ask you to do anything that would hurt you, or anyone else." He paused, shrugging a little as he amended, "Except maybe Ketch."

Mick returned his smile, glancing down for a moment before meeting Sam's eyes again. "I believe I can live with that."

"Just – no more secrets." Sam's smile faded, but his hands remained gentle, reassuring. "At least – nothing big, nothing that's going to put us in danger. And no more hurting yourself. Can you promise me that?"

Mick nodded. "I promise," he whispered.

"Good." The warm approval in Sam's voice eased some of the tension from Mick's body, his shoulders relaxing as Sam continued. "Of course, we're all in danger until Ketch is gone. That's clear now. But it shouldn't be much longer. I have a plan. All I need is a couple of days." Sam's expression hardened as he glanced toward the door, and the dark note of determination Mick heard in his voice made him feel safe and secure. "And if Ketch decides to show up before then – we'll be ready for him."

Two days later, Ketch presented Sam and Dean with another hunt – mangled bodies in the woods, hearts removed, claw marks and strange animal prints in the snow. Mick stayed out of the way, waiting off to the side in case he was needed as the Winchesters looked through the file Ketch gave them.

"If I had to guess, I'm thinking werewolf," Dean observed, leafing through the pictures.

Ketch nodded. "That was my initial impression as well."

Sam looked up from studying the pictures over Dean's shoulder to give Ketch a dismissive smirk, as if he doubted his ability to hazard a guess as to _what_ they were dealing with. "How many werewolves have you gone up against?"

Ketch bristled, glaring. "My fair share."

Mick suppressed the smile that rose to his lips at Ketch's response. There was still a part of him that automatically reacted to Ketch's anger with fear – but to see Sam get under his skin like this, push his buttons and manipulate him toward the course of action they wanted him to take, was incredibly satisfying.

Sam gave a slight, conciliatory shrug, a condescending smile on his lips as he put the papers away and stood up, preparing to leave. "Yeah, but… _recently_."

Dean let out a soft little huff of laughter. "Yeah, dude. That's the thing that sucks about your job, right? Stuck behind a desk all day while your skills get rusty."

Mick tried not to appear to be watching for Ketch's reaction – which was precisely as they'd expected. His shoulders straightened, eyes narrowed. He smiled, but his voice was taut, edged with defensive tension.

"I assure you, my skills are not in the least… _rusty_."

Sam took the file from Dean's hands to get a closer look at one of the pictures, sounding not all that interested as he replied distractedly, "Guess we'll just have to take your word for it."

Ketch stepped forward and took the file from Sam's hands, drawing his full attention. "Trust me when I say that I could easily handle this case on my own, if I hadn't far more important work to do."

"Aw." Sam smirked, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Ketch a knowing look of amusement. "Did I wound your fragile little ego?"

Ketch set the file on the table and took a step toward Sam – which Sam immediately met, his smile slipping a little, his eyes hard.

"Easy, easy…" Dean stepped up between them, holding out his hands, conciliatory. "I know things have been a little – tense lately, between you two, but let's not anyone do anything he'll regret, right? You're both great hunters. Let's just leave it at that…"

"No, let's settle it," Ketch countered, speaking to Dean but not taking his eyes off Sam. "I'll go on this hunt _with_ you. Let you see firsthand just how _rusty_ my skills have become."

Sam's eyes narrowed as he studied Ketch, speculative and suspicious. Dean considered Ketch's suggestion for a moment, giving a cautious sideways nod of acquiescence.

"We never did get to hunt together, did we? That one time, we were gonna kill some vamps, but Sam and Mick here got all the fun."

"My entire team _died_ that day!"

Mick couldn't help but find Dean's words deeply offensive, though he knew their purpose, knew what the goal was, and that Dean and Sam were skillfully manipulating Ketch down the specific path they wanted him to go down. Still, his response escaped him before he knew he was going to speak at all. He immediately regretted it when all three men turned their gaze toward him. Swallowing hard, he averted his gaze, his tone more subdued, but sullen, resentful.

"Odd definition of 'fun' you've got. That day was a nightmare. If you'd any decency you'd recognize that."

When the silence that followed his words went on a bit too long, Mick glanced up again, uncertain, his gaze finally falling on Sam. Sam's eyes locked with his for an instant – and Mick read a hint of a warning there. Still, he was unprepared when Sam took a single step forward and struck him across the face. Mick staggered back a step, the sharp heat of mingled pain and humiliation spreading across his face as he raised his hand to his cheek.

"Was anyone talking to you?" Sam demanded.

"N-no," Mick replied immediately, a note of fear in his voice.

He understood why Sam had done it. They'd just been discussing the need for them to put on a better show for Ketch, to better sell the idea that Sam was consistently abusing him when Ketch was not around. Sam had simply taken advantage of the opportunity Mick had thoughtlessly provided.

Still, the last thing Mick had expected was for Sam to strike him. It wasn't exactly rational, he knew, but he still found himself struggling with a very real sense of hurt and indignation. He allowed it to show on his face, his jaw locking for a moment before he swallowed slowly and forced out a grudging, "Sorry."

A moment's tense silence followed, before Dean broke it, sparing an uneasy glance in Mick's direction before clapping a hand down on Ketch's shoulder and going on with the conversation as if nothing had happened. "I for one would like to see what you've got," he remarked. "Yeah. Let's hunt some werewolves."

"I'm not sure I trust him not to shoot me in the back the moment it's turned." Sam raised an eyebrow in Ketch's direction.

Dean looked amused for a moment, but his smile faded a little, something dark and certain in his eyes as he replied, "Well – if your back is turned, you know mine isn't. You've got nothing to worry about. I'd actually think _he's_ got more to worry about, the way you two have been getting along like cats and dogs lately. Who's watching _his_ back, if _you_ decide to stick a knife in it?"

Ketch gave Dean a smile that somehow managed to be appreciative and patronizing at the same time. "The whole of the British Men of Letters, actually," he replied. "I'm not worried. If I were to meet with some sort of… unfortunate accident on a hunt with you, the British Men of Letters would arrive in force, and they'd deal with you as they dealt with that unpleasant American hunter who served the Alpha Vampire. You'd be taken back to England for trial. And as none of us want that – I'm fairly certain that my back is quite safe."

Sam watched Ketch closely for a moment, quiet, appraising. Then his face broke out into an easy grin. "It's the werewolf that needs to look out. Between the three of us, I don't think they stand a chance."

Ketch studied Sam a moment longer, before allowing himself a cautious smile in return. "Quite right."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do this. Should be… interesting, if nothing else. A little break from the routine."

"Allow me a few minutes to pack a bag," Ketch requested. "And we'll go."

Once Ketch left the room, Sam turned his attention toward Mick. They both knew there were likely cameras in every room of the British headquarters, even if Mick did not know where they all were. Mick knew that Sam had to keep up appearances as long as they were here, in case Ketch should review the footage later.

Still, his stomach dropped and his mouth went dry as Sam closed in on him, slow and predatory, taking his sore wrists and raising them to press them against the wall over his head. Sam was very carefully not quite touching his injuries, but Mick still let out a distressed little sound, biting his lip as if stifling pain. Sam lightly held his wrists above his head with one hand while reaching down with the other to reach into the pocket of Mick's trousers.

Mick's heart raced, his eyes locked with Sam's as Sam leaned in close to whisper in his ear. "Everything you need," he explained. "Be careful. He's probably got cameras in his office."

Mick shook his head as if in pleading protest against whatever Sam had said to him – or perhaps done to him – eyes closed, body taut with fear that wasn't entirely false. "Right," he whispered. "I know he does. _You_ be careful, too. If he thinks he's got an opportunity to make it look like an accident…"

"He won't," Sam assured him. "Dean's got my back. We'll be fine. And after this hunt, when I come back for you… we won't ever have to worry about Ketch again. You'll be safe. All right?"

It felt like a dream – far too good to be true. Mick desperately wanted to believe it. He met Sam's eyes, nodding – hoping that Sam was right. Sam released Mick's wrists, instead lowering his hand to cup Mick's cheek. Mick flinched enough that it would be visible if caught on camera, but then went still, submitting to Sam's touch. He was supposed to be afraid of Sam; it wouldn't do to show too much resistance.

Not that he _wanted_ to resist. Sam's hand against his face was gentle, a cool contrast to the heat that still lingered there. There was an undeniable reassurance in surrendering to Sam, allowing him to take control, knowing that whatever Sam did was for his protection – for his good. Sam's eyes were troubled, searching as he studied Mick's face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't want to, but…"

"S'all right," Mick whispered. "I get it. I – shouldn't have snapped like that, knew you two had to get him to go with you. It's just – when Dean said…" He shook his head a little, letting out a heavy sigh. "Tell him I'm sorry."

"No reason to be sorry," Sam argued with a rueful little half-smile. "Dean should watch his mouth sometimes. He speaks before he thinks about ninety percent of the time." His smile faded as he concluded, "I'm just sorry I hurt you."

"You didn't. Much," Mick insisted, meeting Sam's eyes, but not allowing himself to return Sam's smile. Sam was supposed to be enjoying himself, should Ketch review the recordings later – but Mick was most decidedly not.

Sam leaned in close, his hand shifting to cup the back of Mick's head and pull him in close to whisper against his ear, "When we get done with this hunt, and take you home… no one will _ever_ hurt you again."

Mick nodded hurriedly, as if responding to some command or threat Sam had whispered to him, his eyes falling closed as he allowed himself for just a moment to relish the soft slide of Sam's fingers through his hair, the enticing promise in Sam's whispered words. When Sam drew back, removing his hand from Mick's pocket, Mick resisted the urge to slide his own hand into it. He could feel the slight weight of the object Sam had left there, but knew better than to draw attention to it.

Ketch returned a few minutes later, his bag over his shoulder, ready for the hunt. As they loaded supplies into the Impala and prepared to leave, Mick tried to shake off the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach – for Sam, but also for himself, and the mission he had to accomplish.

As soon as the hunting party was gone, Mick set about his usual tasks. He knew that Ketch was likely to check up on him, reviewing the surveillance videos as soon as he got back to the compound – and in spite of Sam's promises that he had faced Ketch's abuse for the last time, Mick wasn't going to take any chances of giving himself away with unusual activities. He continued cleaning and filing before going and sitting down at Ketch's desk and taking out Ketch's appointment book.

He made a couple of phone calls, arranging meetings for Ketch with American hunters Ketch meant to recruit, though he wasn't trying as hard as he usually would have to overcome their objections and make sure they had appointments in the book when he hung up the phone. Halfway through the second call, he slid his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing around the slim thumb drive Sam had left there. He reached down as if scratching his leg, the phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he spoke – and slid the device into the port on Ketch's hard drive, under the desk.

He made a point of not looking at Ketch's password-protected computer screen, but out of the corner of his eye he could see it as the device he'd plugged in immediately set to work attempting to discover Ketch's password – just as Sam had said it would. Dozens of attempts per second, until the program on the thumb drive finally found the right password and gave the software access to Ketch's computer. Mick didn't touch anything, just continued his assigned tasks, as the password screen disappeared and Ketch's desktop became visible.

Immediately, the second program on the thumb drive opened a window on the screen, which said simply, "Copying…" over a status bar. Mick watched out of the corner of his eye as he made a couple more calls, waiting until the screen read, "Copy complete". Immediately it returned to the password entry screen, and Mick waited until then to rise from the chair, gather his work, and start to walk away. A pen rolled off the top of the stacked files and books, and Mick reached down to retrieve it – and the thumb drive – slipping it back into his pocket before straightening and walking out of Ketch's office.

" _It'll make a copy of his entire computer, without leaving any trace that it was ever there,"_ Sam had explained. _"Then we can go through everything on it when we get back to the bunker, find what's useful, and get it over to your superiors. He'll be finished."_

Mick had been impressed, and a little disturbed. _"Where did you get such software?"_

Sam's smile had been touched with sadness and loss as he'd answered simply, _"A gift from a friend. She said it might come in handy someday. She was right."_

Mick continued his assigned tasks, the light weight of the object in his pocket a constant comfort, and an exciting promise. That tiny, innocuous object would provide the evidence they needed to get Ketch removed from his post. He'd no longer have the power or authority to lay a hand on Mick – not that Mick intended to be anywhere near Ketch when he discovered how thoroughly trapped he really was. No, as soon as this hunt was over, Mick would be leaving the British compound for the Winchesters' bunker, where he'd finally be safe.

With Sam. At _home_.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam, Dean, and Ketch arrived back at the British compound two days after they left – and half an hour before dawn.

Sam had quietly done the math before they left, and Dean had tried to adjust his speed to get back faster, but they weren't far enough away for it to make much of a difference – or to justify spending an extra night away on the Men of Letters' dime.

"You'll just have to wait your turn, Sam." Ketch was clearly amused, well aware of Sam's displeasure. "It's not as if you haven't manipulated the timing of your hunts a few times already in order to give _yourself_ a bit of extra time. Goes both ways, mate."

Ketch's smirk inspired Sam's imagination to come up with all the various ways in which he could wipe it from his smug face – but he resisted the impulse as Ketch got out of the Impala's passenger seat and headed into the compound. It wouldn't do to overplay his hand – not now, when they were so close to beating Ketch for good. Sam took his usual place in the front next to Dean – a right he'd relinquished only because the idea of having Ketch at his back for the entire ride had made his skin crawl.

"It's just a few hours," Dean pointed out as he turned the car around and headed back toward the bunker. "We're both beat, anyway. You'll sleep them away. And then we'll be back here to pick him up. That software won't leave any trace on Ketch's computer; he's got no way of knowing anything's up. Nothing to worry about."

"I just don't like leaving Mick here with that psycho." Sam sighed, glancing in the rearview mirror at the compound swiftly fading from his view. "And after what Ketch did to that poor girl…"

Sam felt his anger rising up again as he thought back over the events of the hunt – the newly turned teenage werewolf that Ketch had poisoned without a second thought. In hindsight, Sam realized that he probably should have pretended not to care; compassion for monster children wasn't exactly a quality of the persona he'd constructed and portrayed in Ketch's presence for the past few weeks; but he simply couldn't restrain his outrage at what Ketch had done. Ketch insisted that it was the policy of the Men of Letters, and nothing else could have been done, he was only following orders, after all – but none of that mattered to Sam.

Ketch had murdered a child.

"Yeah." Dean's expression was dark and angry as he watched the road ahead of him. "Didn't seem like it fazed him even a little. I'm really glad we sent Claire away when we did – and that she actually listened."

"Yeah."

Sam smiled a little at the thought of their young friend, and her fierce frustration, but eventual surrender to the better judgment of the Winchester brothers. Only once he'd pulled her aside and explained to her that they were in the midst of a bigger mission here, something far more important and dangerous than a couple of random werewolves, had she – well, she _hadn't_ agreed to leave. No, she'd been more intrigued than ever. It was when Sam promised to call her once they got back to the bunker and explain everything that she had finally left the case to them – and Sam was glad that she had. Otherwise, she might have gotten seriously hurt.

After a few quiet, thoughtful moments, Dean broke the silence, speculative. "You think he was telling the truth? That's what his superiors wanted him to do? That killing a kid like that lines up with their – code, or whatever?"

"Hard to say." Sam stared out the window, troubled. "I mean – I wouldn't exactly be shocked. To hear Mick talk about it… it sounds like they've asked things of him that…" He stopped, shaking his head a little. "It could go either way. Wouldn't put it past them. Wouldn't put it past Ketch to do it on his own, either. It's just – I'm starting to think that just getting Ketch out of the way – might not be enough. But if we move too soon – before we're ready, before we know more about them…" He was quiet a moment. "I need to talk to Mick."

"Tonight." Dean nodded firmly.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I hate to bring it up. I know he's been through – a lot of shit he doesn't want to talk about, and I feel like a lot of it is connected to the British Men of Letters, but – we need to know what we're dealing with. We need to know if they can be trusted. He – he wants to stay with us, but – I'm beginning to wonder if they'll even _let_ him go, and – I'm _not_ turning him over to them just to see him abused again by someone else."

"Tonight," Dean repeated. "We'll get him out of there, Sam. Just have to wait a few more hours."

Without the constant threat of Ketch's presence, Mick would have thought he'd have enjoyed the peace and quiet of the empty British compound. Instead, he spent the entire time uneasy, restless, doing his best to occupy his mind and keep his worries at bay – but mostly failing miserably. Every slight, occasional sound of the computers and various machinery about the compound made his heart lurch with mingled dread and anticipation, anxiously wondering if it meant Ketch and the Winchesters had returned – anxiously wondering if Sam was going to return at all.

Ketch had made it quite clear recently how he felt about his necessary association with the Winchesters, how impatient he was to be rid of it – and to be rid of _Sam_ , completely. Mick had no doubt that if the opportunity arose to kill Sam under cover of the hunt – or even simply to allow Sam to die when a better man would have had his back – Ketch would certainly take it.

 _Sam's not just any average hunter,_ Mick reminded himself repeatedly. _There's a reason why Ketch wanted his endorsement in the first place_ _,_ _why Sam has lived so much longer than most hunters ever do – because he's smart, and observant, and he'll be watching for Ketch's tricks. And Dean's there too, and Dean's almost as amazing as Sam_ _._ _He'll be looking after him, protecting him… he'll be fine. Sam will come back. He will._

 _And then we'll go home._

Mick awakened on the third morning to the sound of his alarm, and began getting dressed in the quiet near-darkness of his windowless room, the only light provided by a small lamp on the floor beside his mattress. As soon as he'd pulled on his trousers, he bent down, reaching under the edge of his mattress to retrieve the thumb drive he'd stashed there.

The door to his room abruptly opened, and Mick straightened quickly, his heart in his throat as he turned to face the shadowed silhouette of Ketch, standing in the doorway. Immediately Mick slipped his hand into his pocket, out of Ketch's sight, hoping that the darkness of the room and the way his body was angled away from the door was enough to prevent Ketch from seeing the motion.

"You're back," he observed, pointlessly, reaching into his wardrobe for a clean shirt. "How did it go?"

Ketch said nothing, but flipped the light switch by the door, and Mick stopped for a moment, blinking as his eyes adjusted. When Ketch's face finally came into focus, he was smiling – cold, calculating, with a secretive amusement that made Mick shiver.

"Badly for you, I'm afraid."

An icy fist clenched around Mick's heart, and he stopped halfway through buttoning up his shirt, staring at Ketch as he strolled into Mick's room, his smile widening a bit at Mick's reaction. Mick swallowed hard, struggling to keep his words calm and level.

"What does that mean?"

 _It means that Sam is dead. It's all over. Ketch has been onto us all along, and he saw his chance and he_ killed Sam, _and he's not coming back and you belong to Ketch again and he's about to prove it, right now, why are you even bothering getting dressed or waiting for an answer or fucking_ drawing your next breath _because it's_ over _and Sam is_ dead _…_

"It was – an unlucky sort of hunt for Sam from the start," Ketch began, and Mick felt the blood drain from his face, his breath coming with difficulty as Ketch continued. "As it turns out the werewolf turned one of its victims – and Sam was quite put out when I put the bitch down. Surprising, as cruel a man as he seems… to have such a soft heart for a monster."

Mick was vaguely aware that Ketch was watching him for his reactions, knew on some level that he should try to guard them – but it was all he could do to keep standing, keep breathing, the rush of his own blood pounding in his ears, bile rising in his throat at the thought of what Ketch's deliberately drawn out story was inevitably leading to.

"So… I suppose he was a bit distracted, going into the fight with the original werewolf. It – wasn't going well for him." Ketch shook his head sadly with a little grimace of false regret. "The werewolf had his back to the wall. He was losing, and – I saw the opportunity for what it was." Ketch's eyes met Mick's, and the false sorrow on his face shifted into a malicious smile.

Mick couldn't speak as Ketch closed in on him, his mind rebelling against Ketch's words, fighting not to take them in, even as he was already certain what he was about to hear.

"Sam's been a bloody thorn in my side ever since we made our little arrangement. And his brother was dealing with the second werewolf, one the first had sired, so – there was nothing to stop me. I drew my weapon and took aim… and pulled the trigger."

Mick shook his head, backing away from Ketch, rejecting everything about his advance, until his back hit the wall and there was nowhere else to go. Ketch smiled, closing in and placing his hands on Mick's arms, holding him still as he concluded his horrifying tale.

"Of course… I'm loyal to the Men of Letters, and Sam is a useful asset to them still, despite my personal opinion, so…" He gently stroked his fingers through Mick's hair, studying his reaction closely, his voice hushed and level as he concluded, "… it was the werewolf I shot. Not Sam. Thanks to my intervention… Sam survived this hunt."

Mick stared up at Ketch, blinking, his panicked mind taking a moment to catch up with the abrupt shift. He wasn't quite sure whether or not to believe it, caught between grief and relief – far too overwhelmed to pull off any sort of convincing façade at the moment. His voice was a hoarse, uncertain whisper as he choked out, "Sam… Sam's alive."

Ketch smiled, his eyes calculating. His hand slid down from Mick's hair to brush the backs of his fingers against Mick's cheek. "Sorry to disappoint."

Ketch's hands came to rest against Mick's chest, pushing him gently back against the wall, and Mick was too stunned, his mind still reeling too much to even think of resistance – until he felt Ketch's hands running down the unbuttoned front of his shirt. Instinctively Mick tried to push him away, abruptly alarmed. Without a word, Ketch immediately grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the wall behind him – not hard enough to hurt, not much; just a silent warning against any further resistance. Mick offered none as Ketch's hands returned to his shirt… and the patient work of slowly buttoning it closed.

"Despite my own… personal interest in the matter… despite my desire to have you to myself again," Ketch sighed. "I serve the Men of Letters. And they still want Sam alive. So – our little hands off policy is still in place, and he still has you all to himself. My own interests don't matter."

Mick's heart was racing, his mind muddled and struggling to keep pace with Ketch's words and actions – and he was unprepared when Ketch grabbed his right hand and held it against the wall, restrained and useless as Ketch reached with his other hand into the right pocket of Mick's trousers. Too late, Mick made an attempt to stop him, to snatch back what Ketch had taken – but Ketch swiftly stepped back, holding up the incriminating thumb drive in his hand.

He smiled at Mick, cold and angry. "Tell me, love… whose interests have _you_ been serving lately?"

Mick's mind was still back on _Sam's alive_ and _can't let him see how relieved you are_ and _why is he standing so close and touching and get away,_ get away _from me!_ – too distracted to even process what this meant. For him, and for Sam – for everything they'd spent the last few weeks building and preparing. He swallowed hard, eyes focused on the thumb drive.

"It's – it's not… it's nothing…"

"I find that highly unlikely." Ketch smirked. "Tell me, because I'm going to find out anyway… what exactly is on this thing you were so quick to hide when I walked into the room?"

Mick glanced up to meet Ketch's eyes, but the cruel satisfaction he saw there made him look away.

 _He's going to know. He's going to plug the thumb drive in and find out what's on it and he's going to know and he's going to hurt me. What I say doesn't matter. Won't help. Could just make it worse…_

So Mick said nothing, simply refocused his gaze on the floor at his feet and remained silent.

"Fine," Ketch remarked after a moment. "Have it your way. I'll find out soon enough just exactly how you've been conspiring against me."

Ketch turned and walked out the door, and Mick realized a moment too late what he intended, rushing to the door after him and grabbing the handle just as he heard the lock turn from the outside. He pounded the door once in frustration, despair sinking in as his mind finally caught up to everything Ketch had said. He was trapped in this tiny room, with no escape until Ketch decided to let him out – no doubt, after he'd examined the contents of the thumb drive and reviewed the videos and figured out basically everything.

 _Conspiring against him… that's what he said. And the way he told that story, he knew… he_ knew _you wouldn't be glad to hear of Sam's death. He's been suspicious for a while, but now… he knows._

Sam wouldn't be back until nightfall, which meant that nearly the entire day stretched before him with nothing but Ketch's rage to look forward to – and if Ketch believed that Sam was working with Mick against him, Sam's feelings about it would do nothing to prevent him from hurting Mick in any way he desired. Mick shivered; he could still feel the careful brush of Ketch's fingers against his skin as he'd buttoned up his shirt.

He knew that once Ketch had viewed the contents of the thumb drive and knew the truth, there'd be no such restraint in his touch. He'd take out all his vindictive fury on Mick, making up for lost time and inflicting all the suffering that'd been denied him for the past weeks.

And Sam would arrive later, completely unsuspecting, just to walk into a trap.

It took a little while to get past the panic – to slow his racing, despairing thoughts until he could focus and try to come up with some kind of a plan – but Mick had time. He had nothing but time, locked in this tiny room with no weapons, no means of communicating with Sam, nothing but his own mind. So he began to think, to try to come up with some kind of a plan, some way of explaining what Ketch had found, some way to salvage some little part of all they'd worked for.

He reached the conclusion that the best he could do was to distance Sam from himself – his motives, his actions – and keep Ketch's focus off of him. If Ketch believed that Mick had acted alone, then he alone would face punishment, and Sam would be safe, and free to perhaps find some way to help him. At the very least, Sam wouldn't suffer for Mick's stupidity in allowing himself to get caught, allowing Ketch to take away their hard-earned evidence.

If he could convince Ketch that Sam had nothing to do with it…

But Mick knew better than to think that Ketch would believe him at this point. The more strongly he protested Sam's innocence, the more convinced Ketch would be that he and Sam were working together – and rightly so. He was supposed to _hate_ Sam, wasn't he? Supposed to be terrified of him and want to be rid of him, and Ketch already doubted that extremely. If he could just find a way to convince Ketch that those things were true…

As he waited in the overbearing silence of his room, Mick reached a single conclusion, bearing down on him with the weight of its possible implications, all the ways it could go wrong – but still, the only option he had, the only way to keep Sam from becoming Ketch's immediate target.

In order to save Sam – Mick was going to have to betray him.

When Ketch returned, Mick waited until the door was open and Ketch had stepped inside to hastily, anxiously go to his knees, facing him, making no attempt to hide the fear that made his stomach quake, his eyes locked onto the floor at Ketch's feet.

"Yeah," Ketch huffed, derisive. "Like _that's_ going to save you."

"S-Sam…" Mick whispered, hoarse and unsteady.

Ketch's fierce backhand across his face took his breath, knocking him down, and then Ketch's hand was gripping the back of his head, searing pain across his scalp, as Ketch leaned in close, barely restrained fury in his eyes.

" _He's_ not going to save you, either," he snarled.

"… _made_ me do it!" Mick choked out, raising his voice, allowing his desperation to show clearly. "Please, he – he told me what he'd do to me – if I didn't. I didn't have a choice!"

Ketch went still, his eyes narrowed as he took that in, clearly surprised, and very skeptical. "Sam – forced you to use that thing to copy my computer. It was _Sam's_ idea – to gather evidence against me."

"Yes," Mick insisted with a little too much urgency, his words rushed and stumbling and, if he was accomplishing what he was trying to – not quite believable. "He – he gave me the thumb drive and – and told me what it'd do and he said – he wanted to turn you in. Wanted – to run the Men of Letters in the States once you were gone. Yeah, he – he said if I didn't make the copy of your computer and bring it back to him, he'd – he'd kill me."

Ketch studied Mick's face closely, and Mick couldn't hold his gaze, guilty and self-conscious – which he hoped would only help Ketch to draw the conclusions he hoped for. Ketch's expression softened into a smile, and his hand in Mick's hair released its painful grip and instead stroked through it, a parody of tender affection as he leaned in close and spoke softly against his ear.

"You're going to wish he had."

Mick shivered as Ketch let him go, standing up straight and turning away. He reached out desperately, grasping at Ketch's ankle to stop him. "Please! You have to believe me, I – I would never…"

Ketch kicked at him – a glancing blow that was more disgusted than actually intended to hurt – and continued toward the door. "We'll just see what Sam has to say about all this when he gets here."

He left Mick locked in his room once more, trying to catch his breath – his heart and mind racing with the implications of what he'd just done. Surely Ketch had to be questioning his assumptions right now. If Mick and Sam were working together, if Mick held any sort of loyalty to Sam, then he wouldn't have just thrown all the blame on him, would he? If Mick was willing to betray Sam so fully, then surely Ketch couldn't believe any longer that they were on the same side.

And for his own safety, right now, the last place Sam needed to be was on Mick's side.

Sam couldn't sleep much that day, despite his exhaustion from the hunt. He couldn't turn his mind off, couldn't stop thinking about getting back to the British compound and getting Mick out of there – hopefully for the very last time. He was up and dressed and ready to go an hour before sunset, sitting at the library table with a cup of coffee while he waited for Dean to finish showering and getting ready.

He was tempted to go alone rather than wait, he was so anxious to get there. Ketch hadn't tried anything on the hunt – in fact, had saved Sam's life at one point – so Sam was fairly certain he could safely go alone. But this was too crucial a point in their plan, too near to the end to take any chances. As always, it was much better to have his brother backing him up. So he waited.

When they finally reached the compound, Sam sat there for a moment in the passenger seat, drawing in a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment, preparing to put on a repulsive persona that he hoped he'd be portraying for the very last time. It wouldn't do to make Ketch suspicious now. He would put on one last show, be the cruel, sadistic Sam he'd led Ketch to believe he was – and then take Mick home and never have to hurt or frighten him again, for the rest of his life.

And God help anyone else who tried.

Sam squared his shoulders, steeled himself for this last confrontation – determined and focused as he walked into the compound. The minute he stepped into the conference room, it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong.

Ketch was standing outside his office door – and Mick was kneeling at his feet, facing Sam as he entered. Ketch was smiling coolly, but his eyes were hard; Mick was staring at the floor, pale and shaky, fidgeting with his formerly damaged wrist. He looked up at Sam, eyes wide with panic – and Sam immediately saw the dark bruise high on his cheek.

He fought back the protective instinct he felt, instead allowing Ketch to see only annoyance on his face as he stopped, facing them. "What happened to his face?"

"Not nearly as much as he deserves," Ketch retorted. "My question is – is he the _only_ one who deserves it."

As he spoke, Ketch reached into his pocket to retrieve something. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean's hand edge back toward his own weapon, without quite reaching for it. But Ketch wasn't going for a gun. When Ketch held up his hand, Sam's heart sank at the sight of the thumb drive he'd given Mick, resting in Ketch's palm.

His mind raced, trying to focus both on the face he was supposed to present to Ketch, as well as trying to figure out just how much Ketch knew, just what sort of strategy he would need in order to get them all out of this safely.

Sam frowned, portraying he hoped only mild confusion.

"What's that?" he asked with an impatient shrug.

"You should know," Ketch replied, his eyes locked onto Sam's, scrutinizing and shrewd. "It's apparently yours."

"Mine?" Sam blinked, then looked at the thumb drive a bit more closely. "I've probably got about a dozen that look like that. How'd it end up here, if it's mine?"

Mick lowered his face into his hands, trembling, shaking his head a little. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he choked out, panicked. "Please, I'm sorry…"

Ketch didn't so much as glance at him, utterly unmoved, his attention focused on Sam. "He says you gave it to him. Told him to use it to copy my computer."

Sam allowed an expression of recognition to dawn on his face. "Oh, that's – yeah, that _is_ mine. Given to me by a very dear friend who's now gone, by the way. But I didn't give it to him." He glared down at Mick, suspicious.

"He says you gave it to him and instructed him to make a copy of my private files, so that you could in turn hand them over to my superiors and get me removed from my position," Ketch further explained. "Said you wanted that position for yourself."

Sam's expression of suspicion shifted to anger and contempt, his voice low and furious. "You lying little bitch."

Mick flinched, looked up at him with tear-filled eyes for just a moment before looking away. "I'm sorry," he repeated miserably, the words almost a sob.

Sam ignored him, glancing over at Dean. "The inventory the other night."

Dean nodded slowly, a thoughtful frown on his lips. "Yeah," he went along with it easily. "I told you we should wait 'til he was back here before doing that."

"Yeah, well, I thought he was too fucked up to move at the moment," Sam snapped, "so I wasn't all that worried about it." He took a couple of steps in closer to Mick, crouching down in front of him, a malicious smile on his lips. "Guess I went a little easy on him, if he was still capable of sneaking around and spying and _stealing_."

Mick flinched, drawing his shoulders in as if trying to present a smaller target. His arms wrapped around his torso, he lowered his eyes, struggling over his words. "Please, I – I'm sorry. I heard you talking about it – what it was – used for, and I – I took it, and – I didn't know what else to do when he found it. Please, I'm so sorry…"

"Maybe not _fucking steal from me_ in the first place!" Sam snarled, grabbing Mick by the back of the neck and yanking him in closer before shoving him away hard and standing up straight again – but relief washed over him, because now at least he knew what the play was.

Mick was taking the blame, playing the liar and the traitor so that Sam would appear blameless – so that, even with the loss of their evidence, their plan would be protected, and Sam could still find a way to get them out of here.

 _He's trusting me…_ Sam's heart raced, the pressure of the task ahead of him nearly overwhelming. _Can't let him down, not now… not when he's put it all on the line in the hopes that I can save him… can get him home…_

 _Just have to get him_ home _…_

"Like things haven't been strained enough already!" Sam snapped, pacing a few angry steps and then turning back toward Mick again, accusing. "And we've been trying so hard to make this partnership _work_ , and then you go behind our backs and – you could have just gotten me shot, do you know that?" Sam stopped a moment, eyes narrowed, a cold, nasty smile on his lips. "Yeah, I bet you _do_ know that," he concluded. "I bet that was what you wanted, wasn't it? Me _dead_ , you stupid, lying little _whore_!"

Sam drew back his fist and brought it down across Mick's face in a brutal backhand blow that sent him reeling, face to the floor. He looked up at Ketch, who was watching him with mild amusement – relieved to see that the suspicion had faded from Ketch's expression; he seemed to be buying it. Sam glared at him, angry and accusing.

"You should have left the discipline to me."

Ketch shrugged, not in the least apologetic. "For all I knew you were in on it."

"Doesn't matter," Sam continued, turning his gaze down toward Mick. "He's not had anywhere _close_ to what he deserves for this. Trust me – when I get through with him, he's _never_ going to try anything like this again."

He reached down and grabbed the collar of Mick's shirt, hauling him up to his feet. Mick shied away from him, but did not resist as Sam started to drag him toward the exit.

 _Just a few steps, just a few more steps and I can get him out of here, we've lost the evidence but he'll be safe for now…_

"No." Ketch's voice was soft, calculating, and Sam stopped, turning back toward him warily. Ketch was smiling as he took in Sam's fury and Mick's terror, before meeting Sam's eyes. "Please stay. At least for a while." He paused before pointing out, "I'm of course going to honor our arrangement. Discipline is yours to mete out. But you must admit, his offense was equally against both of us. I've a right to observe at least – to make sure his punishment is… adequate?"

Revulsion washed over Sam; he could see the hunger in Ketch's lecherous gaze as his eyes slowly raked over Mick, drinking in his terror and deriving pleasure from it. Ketch wanted to watch Mick suffer, simply to _watch_ – to enjoy his pain and fear.

And Sam didn't know how to stop him.

"I don't like an audience," he pointed out, not for the first time.

"You needn't have one – not for the entire time. But – you have this annoying habit of cleaning up after yourself," Ketch smiled. "Or having your angel do it. And – I want to see for myself that he's been properly punished. I've got a room laid out with anything you could need, just perfect for meting out the necessary discipline."

Mick flinched in Sam's grasp, his breath quickening, and Sam felt a hot rush of anger at the realization that Mick was intimately familiar with the room Ketch was describing.

"You can make use of any of my tools you so choose," Ketch offered. "Punish him until I'm… satisfied that it's enough, and then take him back to your bunker and do as you will for the remainder of the night. Fuck him, play with him, punish him some more – have your angel erase the evidence, whatever you choose. But first – you spend some time _here_." Ketch's enticing tone shifted to something a little harder, his eyes locked onto Sam's, making it clear he had no intention of taking no for an answer. "I insist."

Sam swallowed hard, mind racing. He couldn't think of a way to avoid what Ketch was asking. He was certain that at this point, Ketch wouldn't simply allow him to leave with Mick. Their little act had been convincing, but he probably still had his suspicions. He needed time to think, needed to come up with a plan – but there was no time.

"Fine," he agreed at last, terse and mildly annoyed. "But this comes out of _your_ time. I get extra in the morning."

"Fine," Ketch agreed with a smile. "Follow me."

"Wait here," Sam instructed Dean, who had remained mostly silent throughout their negotiation, and – now that Sam really looked at him – looked truly horrified by what was happening. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't – don't _do_ anything, okay?" Sam kept his voice hushed, as Ketch started down the hall away from them, just assuming Sam would follow. "I – I'll come up with something. Just – _wait_."

Sam could see the conflict in his brother's troubled eyes, saw the way Dean swallowed slowly, jaw clenched with frustration, before finally nodding, reluctantly accepting Sam's instructions.

Sam dragged Mick along behind Ketch, down several corridors to a locked door that Ketch accessed with a key. Sam followed him inside – then froze, just inside the doorway.

The room was dimly lit, the walls arrayed with various implements of pain – blades in varying sizes and shapes, whips, clubs, and other items Sam didn't even know names for. Chains hung from the ceiling, and from the walls at varying heights. Other, more complicated restraint devices were on offer as well. On a small table against the wall were laid out several brands and lighters and other small implements.

Ketch had a _literal torture chamber_ in the British Men of Letters compound.

As Sam's mind processed what he was seeing, he slowly became aware of Mick's reaction. Mick was pulling against him just a little – as much as he dared – his body shaking within Sam's grasp, his breath quick and unsteady with panic. His eyes were closed and he was shaking his head a little.

"Please," he sobbed, attempting to go to his knees, though Sam held him up. "Please no, please _don't_ …"

"Shut up," Sam snapped at him, shutting out the guilt, the overwhelming desire he felt to just take Mick into his arms and carry him out of here, Ketch and the British Men of Letters be damned. He dragged Mick further into the room, leading him toward the center where a set of shackles hung from the ceiling. "You brought this on yourself."

"Take your time," Ketch spoke up, and Sam closed his eyes for a moment with his back to him, jaw clenched, resisting the urge to turn his violent behavior on Ketch instead. "Feel free to look around… restrain him as you choose." Sam could hear his cruel smile in his suggestive words. "There really are _so many_ options…"

A tinny, artificially musical sound abruptly echoed in the room, mercifully cutting off Ketch's words, and Sam turned toward him, one eyebrow raised over a smirk as Ketch glared down at the phone he'd taken from his pocket.

"Somewhere else you need to be?"

Ketch waved a dismissive hand, turning toward the door. "Only for a moment. I've got to take this, but I'll be right back." He paused at the doorway with a teasing little smirk over his shoulder. "Don't start without me."

The door closed behind him automatically – and before Sam could take advantage of the silence to _think_ , Mick had collapsed against him, pressed close against his chest as if trying to somehow hide himself away within Sam. Alarmed, Sam tried to push him back, though Mick clung to him too tightly to dislodge him.

"Mick, the cameras!" Sam protested in a whisper. "I know, I'm so sorry, but…"

Mick looked up, his face tear-streaked, his eyes filled with dread. "There aren't any," he explained. "Not in here. He – he never wanted there to be any – any record of – of what he does here…"

He glanced around the room for a moment but quickly lowered his gaze, shuddering as he drew in close against Sam again. Sam took a moment to process his explanation – and then swiftly wrapped his arms around Mick, hugging him tight.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered fiercely, "Mick, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to hit you, but I had to convince him…"

"I know," Mick sobbed. "Please, Sam, I'm sorry, he caught me hiding the thumb drive and he found it and I didn't _want_ to betray you but if I'd insisted you _weren't_ part of it he'd never have believed me and he'd have killed us both. I knew the only way to make him believe we aren't in it together was to turn on you. I – I did my best to sound like I was lying…"

"You did good," Sam assured him, one hand rising to cup the back of Mick's head protectively, and before Sam could think about what he was doing, he'd pressed a tender kiss against Mick's temple. "You didn't do anything wrong, you did the only thing you could, it's all right… it's going to be all right…"

Mick looked up at Sam, eyes bright with panic, his voice a breathless whisper. " _How_?"

"I – I don't know," Sam admitted after a moment. "But I'm going to find a way to get us out of this. I – maybe we just have to kill him."

"No," Mick objected, shaking his head. "If he dies, the British Men of Letters come in force and they kill you, and Dean, and anyone closely associated with you – including me. That's – not an option." He was quiet for a moment, before speaking again, despairing and ashamed. "Our evidence against him is gone. We've got nothing. They'd place all the blame on us, no question."

"Then – we get through this as best we can. We fake it," Sam suggested, nodding slowly as he thought about it. "I make it look good, and get you out of here and back home as quickly as possible. Then, we come up with a plan from there." He met Mick's eyes, raising a hand to gently brush across his bruised cheek, brushing away his tears. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm not gonna hurt you, not really…"

"Yes, you are." Mick's voice was hushed, strangely calm, and Sam was startled by the brave smile he forced to his lips. "He'll know if you're faking it. It _has_ to hurt." He swallowed slowly, his eyes haunted and touched with dread, but resolved. "Has to _bleed_. Has to – to make him believe that you truly want to hurt me, and aren't afraid to do so. That's – it's the only way we leave here alive. The only way we – can get away from him. You _are_ going to hurt me, Sam." He was quiet for a moment, as the agonizing weight of his words sank in, and Sam realized their truth. "You're going to _have_ to."


	15. Chapter 15

"You _are_ going to hurt me, Sam. You're going to _have_ to."

Mick's words hung heavy in the air between them, weighted with his undeniable certainty. Sam stared at him, stricken with disbelief.

Mick could certainly understand Sam's reaction. His own heart was racing, panic threatening to choke him – but the moment the words left his mouth, he felt that panic give way to a strange sense of calm. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he knew without a doubt: there was no other way out of this. This was what had to be done – what _Sam_ had to do.

"No." Sam backed away a step, and Mick immediately felt the loss of contact as Sam's hands left his body, as if the mere act of touching him was a violation in itself. "No, I won't hurt you. There has to be another way."

"There isn't."

"No." Sam shook his head, but Mick could see the sinking realization in his eyes, even as Sam desperately denied it. "No, you – you want me to – _no_!"

"Of course I don't _want_ you to!" Mick's voice dropped to a low hiss, and he glanced uneasily toward the door; the room was soundproof, there was no way of knowing exactly when Ketch might return. "In fact, there's – only one thing I want _less_ , Sam. And that's what's going to happen if you don't do this!" He swallowed hard, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose in his throat, his pulse racing at the vivid sensory memories that came with being back in this room at all. "He'll do it himself, that's what. If he realizes we've played him, he'll… he'll punish me himself. He'll kill you…"

"He'll _try_."

Sam's tone was hard, his eyes blazing with fury – but bright with a sheen of tears, his jaw set with frustration. Mick knew Sam was beginning to understand.

"Fine, then. You'll kill _him_ ," Mick conceded, pausing a beat before continuing. "Then the British Men of Letters will arrive in force to investigate what happened, and they'll conclude, as they always do, that the hunters were at fault. And I, as well, for conspiring with you. And we all die." He paused a moment to allow his words to sink in before concluding, "Know that I hate it as much as you do, Sam, but – it's the only way we _survive_ …"

Sam shook his head, a slow swallow visible in his throat. Mick could practically see Sam's racing thoughts in his troubled eyes, the tense set of his jaw; he was still trying to come up with some way out of this.

There wasn't one – and Mick _had_ to make Sam understand that, while there was still time.

He took back the step Sam had retreated, closing the distance between them and reaching out to firmly grasp Sam's hand. Sam looked up at last, his eyes anguished, and Mick realized the truth of his words even as he spoke them, hushed and earnest.

"I _trust_ you."

Sam flinched, pulling away, but Mick held onto his hand, insistent.

"I do. You've had every opportunity to hurt me, Sam, if you wanted to – and you _haven't_. I know this is the last thing you want to do…" Mick swallowed slowly, drew in a deep breath. "… and… that's why I know I can trust you to do it. It's… my own fault." The heat of shame flushed Mick's face as he confessed softly, "I've gotten myself into a fine mess here, and I can't get myself out of it. But – I know you can. I – I'm counting on you to – to do what you have to."

Sam was silent, studying Mick's face for a long moment, eyes conflicted. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he would have said was cut off by the mechanical hiss of the door beginning to open. Mick's stomach lurched, his mouth suddenly dry. They were out of time. He swallowed hard, dropping Sam's hand and taking a step back, and immediately went to work unbuttoning his shirt.

"O-okay," he said, raising his voice, allowing the edge of his panic in again, just a little, not trying to stop the fine tremor in his hands that made his task more difficult. "Okay, Sam, I – I'll do as you say…"

Mick was facing the door, but Sam's back was to it; which was a mercy, because Mick could still see the conflict on his face as Ketch sauntered in, pocketing his phone as the door slid closed behind him. Mick kept his attention focused on Sam as he shrugged out of his shirt. He could only hope that Sam would make up his mind – and that he'd make it up to go along with Mick's ruse. Sam still didn't move or speak as Mick unfastened his trousers and shed them as well.

He was all too aware of Ketch's greedy gaze, watching him with open interest as he undressed. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself against the vivid memories that assailed his mind.

 _Gotta keep going… Ketch is expecting a real show, and if he doesn't get it, he'll know…_

Ketch had always made Mick undress completely for the things that took place in this room. Mick knew there was no way Sam would ask that of him – but he had to make it appear that he had. A sick, damp chill slid down his spine as he reached for his underwear next – but Sam caught his wrists, stilling his hands, and Mick's heart sank as he looked up into Sam's face.

 _He can't go through with it, he's about to blow our cover, it's all over…_

And then, out of Ketch's sight, Sam's expression transformed – anguished frustration shifted into a cold smile; his warm, sorrowful eyes lit with cruel amusement as he raised Mick's hands high over his head and locked them into the iron shackles suspended from the ceiling.

"No, no. That's enough," Sam said, and Mick shivered as Sam's strong, warm hands ran slowly down his arms and came to rest at his sides, possessively pulling him in close as he leaned in to speak in a hushed, suggestive tone with just enough volume for Ketch to make out his words. "For him, anyway. The rest is… just for me."

An exaggerated pout momentarily crossed Ketch's lips. "Pity," he sighed.

But he seemed to accept Sam's choice as possessive rather than protective. At any rate, he didn't seem any _more_ suspicious as his calculating eyes tracked Sam's movements, watching for any sign of deception. But even Mick saw no trace of hesitation in Sam's actions or expressions, as he adjusted the chains, fastening them at a place that was just taut enough that Mick could still place both feet on the floor, though his arms burned with the stretch of it.

Ketch would have fastened them higher.

Mick's heart raced, his stomach clenched, forcing the panic up into his throat. There were too many memories in this room, memories too near to the truth of this moment – memories of being naked and bound and helpless, with no hope of reprieve, just waiting for whatever creative torment was about to be inflicted upon him, for the sheer pleasure of the monster who'd made this room his own personal hell.

But Sam had left him some meager remnant of dignity and protection – and Sam had chained him in a position that was relatively merciful, compared to some of the ways Ketch had come up with to degradingly, painfully restrain him. And as Sam turned away from Mick, toward the nearest wall covered in various whips and other implements, the anxious quiver in Mick's stomach grew stronger, not with anticipation of pain – but with the thought that there might not be much pain at all.

Because Sam didn't _want_ to hurt or humiliate him. Sam wanted to make this as easy on Mick as he possibly could – but that was the worst possible thing that Sam could do to him in this situation. It couldn't be easy, couldn't be the least amount of punishment Sam thought they could get away with, no matter how convincing he tried to make it. It didn't just have to look real.

It had to _be_ real.

 _Don't hold back, Sam… please don't, because if you do, it's worthless. If you only do this halfway, then he'll still know, and he'll still win, and it'll all be for nothing. Come on, Sam. Please don't have mercy…_

"As you can see, there are plenty of options at your disposal." There was a cruel amusement in Ketch's tone, an eagerness that made Sam want to be sick. "If you've any interest in _my_ input… I could point you toward the items our sweet little slave finds the most… unpleasant."

Sam resisted the urge to turn around and lash out at Ketch, just to make him shut his filthy mouth. He kept his face mostly turned away from Ketch as he took his time – stalling, really – looking over the various implements that hung from the walls and were laid out on tables around the room.

"No," he replied, keeping his tone mild and vaguely bored as he picked up a wicked looking razor strap from the table, inspecting it closely, running his finger down the edge of its lashes as if considering its potential impact. "I've spent the last few weeks exploring Mick's… _preferences_ , and I'm not even a little bit interested in your opinion."

"Well, you're simply no fun, are you?" Ketch sighed.

Sam ignored him, his attention focused instead on the options laid out in front of him – whips and blades and brands, many of which were stained dark at the edges.

 _Mick's blood._ Sam's stomach threatened to revolt, and he swallowed down the wave of revulsion he felt at the realization. _Like the blood of a sacrificial lamb… because that's what he's made himself, isn't it? Set himself up for this, so he'd take all the blame for your plan and you'd look innocent… but he's the innocent, isn't he? You talked him into this, you made him promises that he'd be safe, that this wouldn't ever happen to him again…_

… _it's your fault he's here right now…_

"If none of these are to your liking," Ketch offered, reaching under his jacket and taking out a short, retractable baton. With a swift, snapping motion of his wrist he extended it, and Sam didn't miss the way Mick flinched at the sound. "… I've many times found _this_ effective. Care to give it a try?"

Sam took it from his hand, smiling a little as he ran his fingers over it, testing its weight. He remembered the dozens of livid red welts, the criss-crossed lines of bruises he'd found on Mick's back, the night he'd first examined his injuries – remembered the shame with which Mick had submitted to his inspection, the way he'd explained them away as the results of his own frequent failures.

Sam wanted to test the weapon out, all right. He wanted to swing it at Ketch and not stop swinging. He could clearly see it – the shock on Ketch's face with the first blow, how it'd catch him right across the face and stun him. He'd stumble backward under the force of it, probably reach for a secondary weapon – but Sam wouldn't give him the chance to get his hands on one. Sam wouldn't let him ever get up again. He envisioned Ketch's blood dripping from the baton, splattered on his hands, spiraling toward the drain in the floor, just under the place where Mick was chained. Ketch's lifeless body, broken on the floor at his feet…

"Nah." He shrugged, passing the weapon back to Ketch. "Not my thing."

He couldn't kill Ketch, not yet – not according to Mick, and Sam knew to trust Mick's judgment when it came to the British Men of Letters; he certainly knew them better than Sam did. But neither could Sam use any of these brutal implements on Mick – _especially_ Ketch's baton. He didn't want to be connected in any way with the things Ketch had done to Mick in this room, though at this point, that was clearly unavoidable. But at least he could spare Mick the trauma of reliving Ketch's abuse at his own hands.

Sam hesitated a moment, considering his options – and then reached for his own belt buckle, unfastening it and sliding it out of the loops in a single, swift motion. Mick cringed, shuddering at the sound – and Sam felt a rush of admiration well up within him. He'd never once struck Mick with a belt or any such thing, and yet Mick managed to fill his reaction with a sense of familiarity – as if this was something Sam had done numerous times, something he dreaded experiencing again.

Ketch's lips turned upward in a slow, knowing smile. "Ah, I see." He nodded slowly. "That's what you used to bind his wrists before, isn't it? What left those marks you conveniently let remain for me to find? Bit of a leather kink, have you? Is that why you prefer to use it?"

"I prefer to use it because it's _mine_ ," Sam countered, moving close to Mick again, grabbing his arm to turn his back toward himself and Ketch before running the smooth leather slowly down his spine. Mick shivered, pulling inward onto himself, though not quite daring to pull away. Sam leaned in close, one hand at the side of Mick's throat as he continued, "Because _you're_ mine… aren't you, sweetheart?"

Mick glanced anxiously over his shoulder toward Ketch, though his position kept him from making any sort of real eye contact. Sam saw the fear in his eyes – couldn't allow himself to consider whether it was real, or a part of the act. He could only take it and use it. He steeled himself, setting his jaw, closing his eyes for a moment. Hesitation would only get them both killed. Hesitation would cause him to go through with this just enough to hurt Mick… but not enough to save him.

 _Commit, Winchester. You got him into this – now you're gonna have to do what it takes to get him out. You owe him that much._

Sam took a breath, and then let it out slowly, sinking deeper into his role. He had plenty to draw from, dark memories that filled his mind. He remembered Lucifer, and the cruel pleasure he'd taken in not only physical torment, but mental anguish as well. He remembered what it was like to be soulless, to feel no trace of compassion, to take pleasure in power and control and little else. He knew what the Sam Winchester Ketch thought he knew would do.

He looped his belt around Mick's neck and pulled the ends together behind his head, in the same motion turning them both so that they were facing Ketch again. He wrapped his free arm around Mick's waist, possessively stroking his fingers up the bare skin at his side, eyes on Ketch over a cruel smile as he taunted softly.

"Come on. Answer the question. Who do you belong to, whore?"

Mick's eyes were wide, panicked, as they shifted between Sam's face and Ketch's – which had lit up with stunned pleasure.

"Oh, _that's_ hardly fair, is it?" he remarked, but his grin was wide and wolfish. "Honestly, Sam, that's cruelty beyond what I thought you capable of." He chuckled, dark and delighted. "Helpless little lamb, caught between two beasts such as us – what's the poor thing to do? What could possibly be the right answer in an impossible situation such as this?"

"Well, I'll give you a little hint," Sam offered, his voice hushed and secretive as he leaned in close to Mick's ear. "The right answer, right now? Is probably… the guy holding the belt." He twisted his hand to tighten the belt around Mick's throat, the fingers of his other hand digging into soft, vulnerable flesh.

"You," Mick choked out, desperate, pleading. "I b-belong to you…"

As he spoke, his wide, fearful eyes turned toward Ketch with dread of his reaction – but Ketch just shrugged. His smile was perhaps a little tight, but his tone was light, careless, as he admitted, "True enough. For now."

Sam removed the belt from around Mick's neck, doubling it in his hands as he moved around to stand facing Mick. Mick's head was lowered, but his eyes were locked onto the belt as he gasped to catch his breath, and Sam felt sick – but he forced himself to remain in character.

"Yeah, it is a problem. You've got one master too many, don'tcha?" He struck out abruptly with the belt across the front of Mick's thighs, suppressing his own flinch as Mick bit back a cry of pain, his legs jerking uselessly away from the blow. "So you thought, hey – why not pit the two of them against each other? See who comes out on top? With any luck, at least one of us ends up dead. Either way, you win – right?"

Mick shook his head, wordlessly pleading, as Sam moved around behind him, then released a second vicious blow across his back.

" _Wrong,_ " Sam snarled, circling back around to face Mick again. "Thing is – you suck at lying, Mick. You pretty much suck at most things, but you know – especially lying. And the two of us?" He pointed a finger at his own chest and then at Ketch, back and forth, his smile fading away into a dark, angry glare. " _Not_ utter fucking morons."

"I'm sorry…" Mick's words were rapid and breathless with pain. "I j-just… I just wanted to…"

"To what?" Sam snapped, cutting Mick off. He remembered when Morgan had attacked Mick, and how he'd almost given them away, too lost in his own pain to guard his words. Mick wasn't even close to that point, not yet – but Sam was thinking ahead, to the moment when he would be. "You know what? I don't care."

He struck out again with the belt, the doubled leather striking hard against Mick's side. He arched around the blow but couldn't evade it as Sam struck again near the same spot, then moved in to grab a handful of his hair and speak against his ear, biting off his words, sharp and menacing.

"How about this. How about you just be a good little bitch and keep your fucking mouth shut unless I tell you to open it? How about that?"

Mick nodded hurriedly, frantically, his breath quick and shallow through his nose as he bit down on his own lip in an effort to keep quiet.

"Yeah," Sam said softly, nodding in approval as he moved around behind Mick again. "Yeah, that's better already."

Ketch was smiling, amused by the display. "Funny," he observed. "I've always _enjoyed_ hearing him beg."

"He'll beg if I tell him to beg," Sam retorted, striking Mick again across his legs. "And he'll keep quiet, if I tell him to keep quiet."

 _He_ needs _to keep quiet… because the worse the pain, the less control he'll have… the more likely he is to let something slip… he needs to just be quiet and not say anything at all if he can help it… until I can get this done and get us out of here…_

There were already red welts all across Mick's back, sides, legs – and Sam knew he'd struck with enough impact that there'd be bruises later. The last blow across Mick's legs had broken the skin, and a trickle of blood ran from the cut down Mick's ankle. Sam wanted to stop. He wanted to take Mick into his arms and apologize for the awful things he'd said, for the pain, to take him home and never let him suffer again.

He couldn't. Ketch was buying the act – but he wouldn't if Sam stopped now.

A half a dozen times he'd struck so far – God, was that _all_? – and Sam knew it was not enough to satisfy Ketch.

 _How many is enough? Ancient Roman law said forty save one, any more was considered cruel and unusual punishment…_ It was a fact Lucifer had imparted to him in the Cage, before gleefully pointing out that there were no such limitations on what _he_ could do. _So… ten? No, Ketch will think I'm going easy on him. Twenty, thirty? God, I can't, I_ can't _hurt him that much…_

 _Eight… nine…_

As Sam swung the belt again and again, taking care not to strike too much in any one spot, he at least had the mercy of the increased physical exertion as an excuse to let the cruel words fall away. Mick had to know that it was all part of the act – that Sam didn't _mean_ any of it – but having a reason to keep silent made it just a little bit easier.

Of course – that unfortunately left room for _Ketch_ to speak.

"I was starting to wonder about you, Sam," he confessed with clear amusement. "Yes, Mick certainly _seemed_ frightened enough of you most of the time, but there was never a mark, never any proof that you were actually hurting him. And his loyalties seemed… _divided_ , of late; what was I supposed to think?"

Sam released his thirteenth blow, high across Mick's legs. He forced himself to ignore the choked little cry Mick let out, struggling to keep silence as he'd been ordered, and instead focused on Ketch's words, standing up straight and turning toward Ketch, allowing himself to be distracted, and taking advantage of the chance to give Mick a moment to breathe.

"Apparently, exactly what he _wanted_ you to think," he pointed out with a little nod toward Mick. "How long has he been manipulating the two of us against each other? Gotta give him a little credit – he had us going for a little while there."

"Yes, it would appear that he did," Ketch admitted, his tone dark and resentful, his eyes slowly raking over Mick's battered, bleeding body, sagging against the chains that bound him. "For a while."

Sam walked around in front of Mick, leaning in close and putting his hands on either side of Mick's face. Mick jerked away, but Sam grabbed him by the hair and yanked him forward, close to him again.

"But everything's different now," he pointed out. "You thought your life sucked _before_? What do you think it's gonna be like for you _now_ , now that we're onto your manipulative little games, now that we're on the same side?" Sam let out a low, dark laugh, leaning in to rest his head against Mick's, stroking a finger across his damp, trembling lips. "Oh, sweetheart," he said softly. "You only _thought_ you knew hell."

Ketch laughed a little, and Sam felt the success of his words. As sick as it made him, a rapport was forming between him and Ketch. Ketch's suspicions seemed to be fading; he actually seemed to like the idea of him and Sam working together, as a team. It was working – perhaps a little too well. Sam studied Mick's face, just out of Ketch's eyeline, trying to gauge where he was, how he was holding up. Mick wouldn't look at him, his eyes downcast, his breath shuddering and shallow.

Sam stood up straight, resting a hand at the back of Mick's neck. "I think that's enough for now," he said. "I need him able to walk out of here under his own power, you know? The rest can wait 'til we get to the bunker. He's had enough…"

But even as he spoke, Sam felt Mick straighten under his hand, his shoulders pushing back as he shifted his feet until he found his footing again. He lifted his head, unsteadily and with an effort, but until he could meet Sam's eyes – and Sam was both relieved, and horrified, at the stubborn, defiant glare he saw on Mick's face. Relieved, because it meant Mick wasn't quite as broken as he'd thought – but horrified, because he understood the message Mick was trying to send him.

It _wasn't_ enough. Not yet.

Mick clearly felt that thirteen blows wasn't going to truly convince Ketch of anything. They'd come this far, done this much damage. If the job was half-done, if Ketch was left with doubts – then it was all for nothing. Sam had to make sure that they'd sealed the deal, that Ketch would no longer be watching them for any wrong move, spying on them every chance he got. Sam had to finish this.

He let out a sharp, stunned little laugh. "Maybe not," he said, turning toward Ketch, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Always has been a fighter, this one," Ketch remarked. "It's what makes him so much fun."

Sam was uncomfortably aware of Ketch's focused attention on him, watching him even as he spoke, to see how he would respond to Mick's quiet defiance. Mick had very deliberately left Sam with no choice but to take things farther, to inflict greater suffering upon him – because if he failed to adequately punish Mick's blatant contempt of what he'd done to him so far, Ketch would certainly be left unimpressed.

Sam considered his options, twisting his belt idly around his hands for a few moments, glancing down at it – his eye suddenly caught by the gleam of its steel buckle.

 _Has to be real… has to hurt, has to bleed…_

Mick's insistent words echoed in Sam's mind, and his stomach clenched, because he knew what he had to do. He had to raise the stakes, had to take the pain and punishment to another level, in order to fully convince Ketch of their story… and earn the right to take Mick home.

 _Commit. All in. That's the only way this works._

Sam wound the belt tightly around his hands as he turned back toward Mick, slowly closing the distance between them. As he reached him, he lifted one hand to cup his cheek, tilting his head up to meet his eyes with a cruel smile. "You want more? Fine. You've got it."

He stepped back and let fly a vicious blow, the stiff leather snapping out to curl low around Mick's calves – the metal buckle at its end slicing into Mick's skin and leaving a thin red trail in its wake. Mick let out a choked, startled little cry, helplessly trying to pull away from the searing pain. Sam struck out again, this time the buckle catching Mick across his waist, tearing into the soft skin at his side, and an anguished groan escaped Mick's lips.

"Didn't I tell you to keep your fucking mouth shut?" Sam snapped, not giving him a moment to recover before lashing out with another blow against his thighs, then two more in swift succession, in the same spot. Mick's legs buckled, his feet slipping out from under him – and still Sam didn't stop. He circled his target like a shark, lashing out with the belt another five blows, another ten, until the blood ran down Mick's legs and back, thin trails of red trickling down to the tile beneath his feet.

Helplessly, Mick tried to stifle the pained cries that rose to his lips, his body arching away from the blows, but unable to escape them. Sam struck at random, never giving him the chance to anticipate where the next lash would fall, and his feet slid in the slick of his own blood on the floor. Finally, he lost his footing completely, his arms jerked taut against the chains at his wrists, abruptly forced to support the full weight of his body. Sam could see the visible tremor in his taut muscles, knew it had to be an agonizing amount of pressure on his shoulders and wrists.

But this time, Mick made no attempt to regain his footing.

At last Sam lowered the belt to his side, catching his breath for a moment before walking around to face Mick again. Mick's eyes were closed, his face streaked with tears, his breath rapid and shallow. When Sam closed in, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him in close, Mick flinched, but didn't try to pull away.

"What do you think, you done being a smart ass?"

Mick nodded immediately, gasping for breath. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry, please… _please_ …"

Sam looked him over for a few moments, appraising, before letting him go and taking a step back. He looked down at the belt in his hands – now as stained with Mick's blood as any of Ketch's offered tools. He swallowed hard against the dull ache in his throat, ignored the burning behind his eyes as he casually rolled the belt in his hands and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"All right. Show's over."

He reached up to unfasten the shackles around Mick's wrists. Mick dropped like a stone, collapsed onto the floor in a broken, bloody heap. His shoulders shook with soundless sobs, his breath coming in deep gasps before he whispered, breathless, overwhelmed with relief, "Th-thank you. Thank you…"

Sam turned to face him, a look of feigned surprise on his face for a moment before he crouched down in front of him, grabbed his chin and forced his head up to meet his eyes.

"You think I'm _done_ with you? After what you did?" Sam shook his head in false sympathy, his tone hushed and almost affectionate. "Oh, sweetheart. Not even close."

Mick shuddered, lowering his head as Sam let him go, despair in his eyes. Sam had to give him credit for a very convincing act, under the circumstances. He desperately hoped that it _was_ still an act, that Mick wasn't so lost in the pain and fear that he'd forgotten Sam _wasn't_ going to hurt him any more once they left this room.

"Get up," he ordered, his voice cold, merciless. He knew Mick probably couldn't. Had he taken the act too far? Done too much damage? He swallowed hard, shoving back the anxious concern that rose up within him, shoving at the surface, desperate to break through. He couldn't show what he was feeling, not yet. There'd be time enough for that at home – if he could just hold out a little longer and _get_ them there.

 _Come on, stay with me, it's almost over… just a few minutes longer, and I'll have you out of here…_

 _It's almost over… almost done, just a few minutes more…_

Mick didn't have to fake the overwhelming sense of relief he felt as the chains fell away. To his credit, Sam hadn't held back – though it'd been close. He'd almost stopped too soon, at a point when Mick knew Ketch would still have had his lingering doubts. He might have bought it for the moment, but he'd still have wondered, and still would have been a tremendous threat to them. But Sam had taken Mick's cue, and continued at a level that Mick hadn't anticipated, until Mick was in too much pain to remember why he'd goaded Sam into it… until Mick could no longer physically get his feet under him.

"I said _get up_ , bitch," Sam snarled, and Mick's stomach lurched.

 _Just an act, he's done, he won't hurt you anymore…_

Still, Mick struggled to obey the cold command – panic seizing his chest at the realization that he wasn't able to. Sam's strong hand grabbed his throat, shoving him back against the wall behind him, and Mick flinched, biting back an anguished cry at the impact. Sam was smiling, inches from Mick's face, but his words were sharp, vicious.

"You really _are_ just fucking _useless_ , aren't you?"

Mick swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his heart racing. "I-I'm sorry," he whispered, holding up a single, trembling hand between them. "Please…"

Sam released him with a little shove, turning toward the door, as Ketch opened it. " _Dean_!" he yelled as Ketch followed him out. From the hallway, Mick could hear Sam's voice fading away, but still clearly audible.

"Hope you got whatever you were after here, because there aren't going to be any repeat performances. Don't even ask."

"I've no intention of it," Ketch assured Sam, their voices fading out down the hall. "Though I'll confess after this it's going to be rather tempting." He let out a low, malicious laugh. "Easy, Sam. I'm aware this sort of public display isn't exactly appealing to you – and at any rate, I believe I've seen what I needed to see."

Mick stayed there on the floor in the blessed silence, resting his head against the cool metal wall beside him. He gasped in deep, calming breaths – trying to focus on his breathing rather than on the searing agony in every inch of his battered body – and waited. He knew that Sam couldn't help him up, couldn't help him get to the car. That wouldn't be in keeping with their performance. But Mick trusted Sam, knew that he wasn't going to leave him here. He just waited in the quiet, closing his eyes and giving into the exhaustion that washed over him.

Hurried footsteps down the hall drew his head up, and Mick blinked to bring his vision into focus, as Dean stopped abruptly in the doorway. Mick met his eyes – and was immediately dismayed by the abject horror he saw there.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean whispered, shaking his head slowly. "Did he… did _Sam_ …"

"He had to," Mick whispered, reaching out a hand toward Dean, willing him to understand. "Please, he – I asked him to. So that – Ketch would believe us. He d-didn't want to…" A desperate urgency rose up within him, the necessity for Dean to understand that Sam was not to blame for this, it was his own choice, his own stupidity in getting caught that had made it necessary. " _Please_. Sam, he – he did it to _save_ me…"

"Okay, okay…" Dean held up a silencing hand, glancing anxiously over his shoulder toward the door, his voice hushed and urgent. "Let's not talk any more right now, all right? Don't want anyone overhearing."

"Right," Mick whispered, shame washing over him with the realization of how he'd risked revealing their ruse. It seemed he truly couldn't do anything right. "Stupid…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head and resting it against the wall again, closing his eyes. "… useless and stupid…"

"No, no, now you stop that." Dean's tone was quietly stern, surprisingly gentle, as he knelt down beside Mick and carefully pushed him up away from the wall, steadying him. "You think Sam would like hearing you talk like that?"

Mick swallowed slowly, feeling the burn of tears behind his eyes as he shook his head and whispered, "No…"

"That's right. And it's not true anyway, so just don't. Come on, I need you to help me a little bit, all right? I'm gonna try not to hurt you, but…"

"It's okay," Mick assured him. "I-I know."

"Can you get your arms around my neck?" Dean suggested, his voice hushed and careful.

Mick obediently raised his arms and wrapped them around Dean's neck, leaning into his chest, doing his best to help in whatever small way he could. Dean steadied himself, bracing against the wall as he got back to his feet, cradling Mick in his arms like a child. Mick gasped, a choked little cry escaping his lips at the explosion of pain that bloomed through him as every welt, every bruise was shifted and pulled and pressed.

"Sorry, sorry…" Dean's voice was low, soothing, his breath warm against Mick's ear as Dean shifted, getting a better grip, regaining his balance. "I know it hurts… just gotta get you out of here… it's all gonna be all right."

Mick swallowed slowly, tears welling in his eyes. "When we get home…"

Dean froze for a moment, and Mick felt a rush of shame and regret for his words. He knew Dean didn't really want him in their bunker, knew Dean didn't approve of Sam's decision to welcome him in. He shouldn't have said anything, should have just kept his mouth shut, _stupid, so stupid_ …

"Yeah." Dean's voice was hushed, surprisingly tender, as he continued on to the door and carried Mick out into the hall, his words a whisper of breath that only Mick could hear. "When we get home."


End file.
